THE  SILENCE 


DEAN    MAITLAND 


A  Novel 


MAXWELL     GRESf, 


CHICAGO: 
THE  HENNEBERRY  COMPANY, 

554  WABASH  AVENUE. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND 


PART  I. 


"Not  poppy,  nor  mandragora, 
Nor  all  the  drowsy  syrups  of  the  world, 
Shall  ever  medicine  thee  to  that  sweet  sleep 
Which  thou  ow'dst  yesterday." 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  gray  afternoon  was  wearing  on  to  its  chill  close; 
the  dark  cope  of  immovable  dun  cloud  overhead  seemed 
to  contract  and  grow  closer  to  the  silent  world  beneath  it; 
and  the  steep,  chalky  hill,  leading  from  the  ancient  vil- 
lage, with  its  hoary  castle  and  church,  up  over  the  bleak, 
barren  down,  was  a  weary  thing  to  climb. 

The  solitary  traveler  along  that  quiet  road  moved  her 
limbs  more  slowly,  and  felt  her  breath  coming  more 
quickly  and  shortly,  as  she  mounted  higher  and  higher, 
and  the  gray  Norman  tower  lessened  and  gradually  sunk 
out  of  sight  behind  her.  But  she  toiled  bravely  on 
between  the  high  tangled  hedges,  draped  with  great  cur- 
tains of  traveler's  joy,  now  a  mass  of  the  silvery  seed- 
feathers  which  the  country  children  call  "old  man's 
beard,"  and  variegated  with  the  deep-purple  leaves  of 
dogwood,  the  crimson  of  briony  and  roseberry,  the  gleam- 
ing black  of  privet,  and  the  gold  and  orange  reds  of  ivy 
hangings;  and,  though  her  pace  slackened  to  a  mere 
crawl,  she  did  not  pause  till  she  reached  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  where  the  hedges  ceased,  and  the  broad  white  high- 
road wound  over  the  open  down. 

Here,  where  the  inclosed  land  ended,  was  a  five-barred 
•^ate  in  the  wild  hedge-row,  and  there  the  weary  pedes- 
>rian,  depositing  the  numerous  parcels  she  carried  on  the 


2228443 


4  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

ground  at  her  feet,  rested,  her  arms  supported  on  the 
topmost  bar,  and  .her  face  and  the  upper  portion  of  her 
tall  figure  traced  clearly  against  the  gray,  gloomy  sky. 
Some  linnets  fluttered  out  of  the  hedge  beside  her,-  one  or 
two  silent  larks  sprung  up  from  the  turf  of  the  downland 
sloping  away  from  the  gate,  and  some  rooks  sailed  cawing 
overhead.  All  else  was  still  with  the  weird,  dreamy  still- 
ness that  hangs  over  the  earth  on  a  day  of  chill  east  wind 
haze. 

There  is  a  brooding  expectancy  about  such  a  day  that 
works  strongly  on  the  imagination,  and  suggests  the  dark 
possibilities  of  irresistible  Fate.  There  is  an  austere  poe- 
try in  the  purple  gray,  breathless  earth  and  the  dark,  un- 
changing sky,  and  a  mute  pathos  in  the  quiet  hush  of 
weary  Nature,  thus  folding  her  hands  for  rest,  which  has 
an  unutterable  charm  for  some  temperaments,  and 
touches  far  deeper  chord*  than  those  vibrated  by  the 
brilliance  and  joyous  tumult  of  life  and  song  in  the  pleas- 
ant June-time.  There  is  something  of  the  infinite  in  the 
very  monotony  of  the  coloring;  the  breathless  quiet,  the 
vagueness  of  outline,  and  dimness  of  all-infolding  mist 
are  full  of  mystery,  and  invest  the  most  commonplace  ob- 
jects with  romance. 

The  sense  of  infinity  was  deepened  in  this  case  by  the 
vast  sweep  of  the  horizon  which  bounded  our  pedestrian's 
gaze.  The  gray  fallows  and  wan  stubble-fields  sloped 
swiftly  away  from  the  gate  to  a  bottom  of  verdant  past- 
ures dotted  with  trees  and  homesteads;  beyond  them  were 
more  dim  fields,  and  then  a  wide  belt  of  forest,  princi- 
pally of  firs.  To  the  right,  the  valley,  in  which  nestled 
the  now  unseen  tower  of  Chalkburne,  widened  out, 
bounded  by  gentle  hills,  till  the  stream  indicating  its 
direction  became  a  river,  on  the  banks  of  which  stood  the 
mist-veiled  town  of  Oldport,  the  tall  tower  of  whose 
church  rose  light,  white,  and  graceful  against  the  iron- 
gray  sky,  emulating  in  the  glory  of  its  maiden  youth — 
for  it  had  seen  but  two  lusters — the  hoary  grandeur  of  its 
Norman  parent  at  Chalkburne.  Beyond  the  town,  the 
river  rolled  on,  barge-laden,  to  the  sea,  the  faint  blue  line 
of  which  was  blurred  by  a  maze  of  masts  where  the  estuary 
formed  a  harbor. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  5 

To  the  left  of  the  tired  gazer  stretched  a  wide  chan* 
paign,  rich  in  woodland,  and  bounded  in  the  far  distance 
by  two  chalky  summits,  at  whose  steep  bases  surged  the 
unseen  sea,  quiet  to-day  on  the  surface,  but  sullen  with 
the  heavy  roar  of  the  ground-swell  beneath.  Here  and 
there,  in  the  breaks  of  wood  and  forest  on  the  horizon, 
Alma's  accustomed  eyes  saw  some  faint  gray  touches 
which  in  bright  summer  were  tiny  bays  of  sapphire 
sea. 

Alma  Lee  herself  made  a  bright  point  of  interest  in  the 
afternoon  grayness,  as  she  leaned  wearily,  and  not  un- 
gracefully, on  the  gate,  her  face  and  figure  outlined 
clearly  against  the  dark  sky.  Her  dress  was  a  bright 
blue,  and  her  scarlet  plaid  shawl,  fastened  tightly  about 
her  shoulders,  revealed  and  suggested,  as  only  a  shawl 
can,  a  full,  supple  form,  indicative  of  youth  and  health. 
Her  dark,  thick  hair  was  crowned  by  a  small  velvet  hat, 
adorned  with  a  bright  bird's  wing;  and  her  dark  eyes  and 
well-formed  features,  reposeful  and  indifferent  as  they 
were  at  the  moment,  suggested  latent  vehemence  and 
passion.  Her  hands  and  feet  were  large,  the  former  bare, 
and  wrapped  in  the  gay  shawl  for  warmth. 

Alma  was  not  thinking  of  the  mystery  and  infinite 
possibility  suggested  by  the  gray  landscape  before  her; 
still  less  was  she  dreaming  of  the  tragic  shades  Fate  was 
casting  even  now  upon  her  commonplace  path.  Unsus- 
pecting and  innocent  she  stood,  lost  in  idle  thought,  deaf 
to  the  steps  of  approaching  doom,and  knowing  nothing 
of  the  lives  that  were  to  be  so  tragically  entangled  in  the 
mazes  of  her  own.  Could  she  but  have  had  one  glimpse 
of  the  swift-coming  future,  with  what  horror  would  the 
simple  country  girl  have  started  back  and  struggled 
against  the  first  suspicion  of  disaster. 

The  silence  was  presently  broken  by  four  mellow, 
slowly  falling  strokes  from  the  gray  belfry  of  Chalk- 
burne;  then  all  was  still  again,  and  Alma  began  to  pick 
up  her  parcels.  Suddenly  she  heard  the  sound  of  hoofs 
and  wheels,  and,  dropping  her  packages,  turned  once 
more  to  the  gate,  and  appeared  a  very  statue  of  contem- 
plation by  the  time  a  dog-cart,  drawn  by  a  high-stepping 
chestnut,  and  driven  by  a  spick  and  span  groom,  fair- 


6  THE  SlLi..\CE   OF  DEAX   MA1TLAND. 

haired  and  well-featured,  drew  up  beside  her,  and  the 
groom  sprung  lightly  to  the  ground. 

"Come,  Alma,"  he  said,  approaching  the  pensive 
figure,  which  appeared  unconscious  of  him,  "you  won't 
say  no  now?  You  look  dog-tired." 

"I  shall  say  exactly  what  I  please,  Mr.  Judkins," 
she  replied. 

"Then  say  yes,  and  jump  up.  Chestnut  is  going  like 
a  bird,  and  will  have  you  at  Swaynestone  in  no  time. 
Do  say  yes,  do  ee  now." 

''Thank  you,  I  intend  to  walk." 

"Just  think  what  a  walk  it  is  to  walk  to  Swaynestone, 
and  you  so  tired." 

"I  am  not  tired." 

"Then  why  are  you  leaning  on  that  there  gate?" 

"I  am  admiring  the  view,  since  you  are  so  very  inquis- 
itive." 

"Oh,  Lord!  the  view7!  There's  a  deal  more  view  to 
be  seen  from  the  seat  of  this  here  cart,  and  its  pleasarM: 
flying  along  like  a  bird.  Come  now,  Alma,  let  me  help 
you  up." 

"Mr.  Judkins,  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  drive  on? 
I  said  in  Oldport  that  I  intended  to  walk.  It's  very  hard 
a  person  mayn't  do  as  she  pleases  without  all  this  worry," 
replied  Alma,  impatiently. 

"Wilful  woman  mun  have  her  way,"  murmured  th<- 
young  man  ruefully.  "Well,  let  me  carry  them  parcels 
home,  at  least." 

"1  intend  to  carry  them  myself,  thank  you.  Good 
afternoon ;"  and  Alma  turned  her  back  upon  the  mortified 
youth  and  appeared  lost  in  the  charms  of  landscape. 

"Well,  darn  it!  if  you  won't  come,  you  won't;  that's 
flat!"  the  young  man  exclaimed,  angrily.  "This  is  your 
nasty  pride,  Miss  Alma ;  but,  mind  you,  pride  goes  before 
a  fall,"  he  added,  springing  to  his  perch,  and  sending  the 
high-stepper  flying  along  the  level  down-road  like  the 
wind,  with  many  expressions  of  anger  and  disappoint- 
ment, and  sundry  backward  glances  at  Alma,  who  gazed 
with  unruffled  steadiness  on  the  fields. 

"1  wonder,"  she  mused,  "why  a  person  always  hates  a( 
person  who  makes  love  to  them?  I  liked  Charlie  Jud- 


TEE  SILENCE   OF  DEAX   MAITLAND.  j 

kins  well  enough  before  he  took  on  with  this  love-non- 
sense." 

And  she  did  not  know  that  by  declining  that  brief  drive 
she  had  refused  the  one  chance  of  escaping  all  the  subse- 
quent tragedy,  and  that  her  fate  was  even  now  approach- 
ing in  the  growing  gloom. 

But  what  is  this  fairy  music  ascending  from  the  direc- 
tion of  Chalkburne,  and  growing  clearer  and  louder  every 
moment?  Sweet,  melodious,  drowsily  cheery,  ring  out 
IAVC  tiny  merry  peals  of  bells,  each  peal  accurately  matched 
with  the  other,  and  consisting  of  five  tones.  The  music 
comes  tumbling  down  in  sweet  confusion,  peal  upon  peal, 
chime  breaking  into  chime,  in  a  sort  of  mirthful  strife  of 
melody,  through  all  which  a  certain  irregular  rhythm 
is  preserved,  which  keeps  the  blending  harmonies  from 
degenerating  into  dissonance.  With  a  sweep  and  a  clash 
;i.nd  a  mingling  of  sleepy  rapture,  the  elfin  music  filled  all 
the  quiet  hazy  air  around  Alma,  and  inspired  her  with 
vague  pleasure  as  she  turned  her  head  listening  in  the 
direction  of  the  dulcet  sounds,  and  discerned  their  origin 
in  the  nodding  head  of  a  large  silk-coated  cart-horse 
looming  through  the  haze. 

He  was  a  handsome,  powerful  fellow,  stepping  firmly 
up  the  hill  with  the  happy  consciousness  of  doing  good 
service  which  seems  to  animate  all  willing,  well-behaved 
horses,  and  emerging  into  full  view  at  the  head  of  four 
gallant  comrades,  each  nodding  and  stepping  as  cheerily 
as  himself,  with  a  ponderous  wagon  behind  them.  Each 
horse  wore  his  mane  in  love-locks,  combed  over  his  eyes, 
the  hair  on  the  massive  neck  being 'tied  here  and  there 
with  bows  of  bright  woolen  ribbon.  Each  tail  was  care- 
fully plaited  at  its  spring  from  the  powerful  haunches  for 
?i  few  inches;  then  it  was  tied  with  another  bright  knot, 
beneath  which  the  remainder  of  the  tail  swept  in  untram- 
melled abundance  almost  down  to  the  pasterns,  the  latter 
hidden  by  long  fringes  coming  to  the  ground.  The  pon- 
derous harness  shone  brightly  on  the  broad,  shining 
brown  bodies,  and,  as  each  horse  carried  a  leading-rein, 
thickly  studded  with  brass  bosses  and  fastened  to  the 
girth,  and  there  was  much  polished  brass  about  headstall 
Haddle,  and  collar,  they  made  a  very  glittering  appearance. 


8  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

But  the  crowning  pride  of  every  horse,  and  the  source 
of  all  the  music  which  was  then  witching  the  wintry  air, 
was  the  lofty  erection  springing  on  two  branching  wires 
from  every  collar,  and  towering  far  above  the  pricked  ears 
of  the  proud  steeds.  These  wires  bore  a  long  narrow 
canopy  placed  at  right  angles  to  the  horse's  length,  and 
concealing  beneath  a  deep  fringe  of  bright  scarlet  worsted 
the  little  peal  of  nicely  graduated  bells.  Balls  of  the  same 
bright  worsted  studded  the  roof  of  the  little  canopy,  and 
finished  the  gay  trappings  of  the  sturdy  rustics,  who  bore 
these  accumulated  honors  with  a  sort  of  meek  rapture. 

The  wagon  these  stout  fellows  drew  needed  all  their 
bone  and  sinew  to  bring  it  up  and  down  the  steep,  hilly 
roads.  Its  hind-wheels  were  as  high  as  Alma's  head; 
their  massive  felloes,  shod  with  double  tires,  were  a  foot 
broad;  the  naves  were  like  moderate-sized  casks.  High 
over  the  great  hind  wheels  arched  the  wagon's  ledge  in  a 
grand  sweep,  descending  with  a  boat-like  curve  to  the 
smaller  front  wheels,  whence  it  rose  again,  ending  high 
over  the  wheeler's  haunches,  like  the  prow  of  some  old 
ship  over  the  sea.  A  massive  thing  of  solid  timber  it 
was,  with  blue  wheels  and  red  body,  slightly  toned  by 
weather.  On  the  front,  in  red  letters  on  a  yellow  ground, 
was  painted,  "Richard  Long,  Malbourne,  1860." 

Two  human  beings,  who  interrupted  the  fairy  music 
with  strange  gutturals  and  wild  ejaculations  to  the 
steeds,  mingled  with  sharp  whip-cracks,  accompanied 
this  imposing  equipage.  One  was  a  tall,  straight-limbed 
man  in  fustian  jacket  and  trousers,  a  coat  slung  hussar- 
wise  from  his  left  shoulder,  and  a  cap  worn  slightly  to 
one  side,  with  a  pink  chrysanthemum  stuck  in  it.  His 
sunburned  face  was  almost  the  hue  of  his  yellow-brown 
curls  and  short  beard;  his  eyes  were  blue;  and  his  strong 
labored  gait  resembled  that  of  his  horses.  The  other  was 
a  beardless  lad,  his  satellite,  similarly  arrayed,  minus  the 
flower.  Sparks  flew  from  the  road  when  the  iron  hoofs 
and  heavy  iron  boots  struck  an  occasional  flint.  When 
the  great  wagon  was  fairly  landed  on  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
the  horses  were  brought  to  by  means  of  sundry  strange 
sounds  and  violent  gestures  on  the  part  of  the  men,  and, 
with  creaking  and  groaning  and  hallooing,  the  great 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAXD. 


9 


land-ship  came  to  anchor,  the  elfin  chimes  dropped  into 
silence,  interrupted  by  little  bursts  of  melody  at  every 
movement  of  the  horses,  and  the  lad  seized  a  great 
wooden  mallet  and  thrust  it  beneath  the  hind  wheel.  The 
carter  leaned  placidly  against  the  ponderous  shaft  with 
his  face  to  Alma,  and  struck  a  match  to  kindle  his  replen- 
ished pipe. 

"Coldish,"  he  observed,  glancing  with  surly  indiffer- 
ence toward  her. 

"It  is  cold,"  returned  Alma,  drawing  her  shawl  cozily 
round  her  graceful  shoulders;  while  the  wheeler,  stimu- 
lated into  curiosity  by  his  master's  voice,  turned  round  to 
look  at  Alma,  and  shook  out  a  little  peal  of  bells,  which 
roused  the  emulation  of  his  four  brothers,  who  each 
shook  out  a  little  chime  on  his  own  account;  while  the 
wagoner  glanced  slowly  round  the  vast  horizon,  and, 
after  some  contemplation,  said  in  a  low,  bucolic  drawl — 

"Gwine  to  hrain,  I  'lows." 

"It  looks  like  it,"  replied  Alma.  "How  is  your  wife, 
William?" 

The  wagoner  again  interrogated  the  horizon  for  inspi- 
ration, and,  after  some  thought,  answered  with  a  jerk, 
"Neuce  the  same." 

"I  hope  she  will  soon  be  about  again,"  said  Alma;  and 
the  leader  emphasized  her  words  by  shaking  a  little 
music  from  his  canopy,  and  thus  stimulated  his  brothers 
to  do  likewise.  "You  come  home  lighter  than  you  set 
out,"  she  added,  looking  at  the  nearly  empty  wagon, 
which  she  had  seen  pass  in  the  morning  filled  with  straw. 

William  turned  slowly  round  and  gazed  inquiringly  at 
the  wagon,  as  if  struck  by  a  new  idea,  for  some  moments; 
then  he  said,  "Ay."  After  this  he  looked  thoughtfully 
at  Alma  and  her  parcels  for  some  moments,  until  his  soul 
again  found  expression  in  the  words,  "Like  a  lift?"  the 
vague  meaning  of  which  was  elucidated  by  the  pointing  of 
his  whip  toward  the  wagon. 

Alma  assented,  and  with  the  wagoner's  assistance  soon 
found  herself,  with  all  her  merchandise,  comfortably 
installed  in  the  great  wagon,  which  was  empty  save  for  a 
few  household  and  farming  necessaries  from  Oldport. 
Before  mounting — a  feat,  by  the  way,  not  unworthy  of  a 


10  THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN   MAITLAND. 

gymnast — she  stroked  the  wheel  horse's  thick  silken  coat 
admiringly. 

"You  do  take  care  of  your  horses  at  Malbourne,  Wil- 
liam," she  said.  "I  heard  father  say  this  morning  he 
never  saw  a  better-groomed  and  handsomer  team  than 
yours." 

William  went  on  silently  arranging  Alma's  seat,  and 
stowing  her  parcels  for  her;  but  a  smile  dawned  at  the 
corners  of  his  mouth,  and  gradually  spread  itself  over  the 
whole  of  his  face,  and  his  pleasure  at  length  found  a 
vent,  when  he  reached  the  ground,  in  a  sounding  thwack 
of  his  broad  hand  on  the  wheeler's  massive  flank — a 
thwack  that  set  the  bells  a-tremble  on  the  horse's  neck, 
and  sent  a  sympathetic  shiver  of  music  through  all  the 
emulous  brotherhood. 

"Ah,"  he  observed,  with  a  broad  smile  of  admiration 
along  the  line  of  softly  swaying  tails  and  gently  moving 
heads,  with  their  nostrils  steaming  in  the  cold  air,  "he 
med  well  say  that." 

"Ah,"  echoed  Jem,  the  satellite,  removing  the  sledge 
mallet  from  the  wheel  and  striding  to  the  front,  with  a. 
reflection  of  his  chief's  pleasure  in  his  ruddy  face  as  he 
glanced  affectionately  at  the  team,  "that  he  med." 

It  was  not  Alma's  admiration  which  evoked  such  satis- 
faction— she  was  but  a  woman,  and  naturally  could  nol. 
tell  a  good  horse  from  a  donkey;  but  her  father,  Ben 
Lee,  Sir  Lionel  Swaynestone's  coachman,  a  man  who  had 
breathed  the  air  of  stables  from  his  cradle,  and  who  drove 
the  splendid  silk-coated,  silver-harnessed  steeds  in  the 
Swaynestone  carriages,  his  opinion  was  something.  With 
a  joyous  crack  of  the  whip,  and  a  strange  sound  from 
the  recesses  of  his  throat,  \Yilliam  bid  his  team  "Gee- 
up!" 

The  mighty  hoofs  took  hold  of  the  road,  the  great 
wheels  slowly  turned,  a  shower  of  confused  harmony  fell 
in  dropping  sweetness  from  the  bells,  and  with  creaking 
and  groaning,  and  nodding  heads,  and  rhythmic  blending 
of  paces  and  music,  the  wagon  lumbered  ponderously 
along  the  level  chalk  road,  which  led,  uninclosed  by 
hedge  or  fence,  over  the  open  down. 

To  ride  in  a  wagon  with  ease,  and  at  the  same  time 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  IX 

enjoy  the  surrounding  landscape  without  a  constant  exer- 
cise of  gymnastic  skill  in  balancing  and  counter-balancing 
the  body  in  response  to  the  heavy  sway  and  jerking  of  the 
unwieldy  machine,  is  difficult;  to  sit  on  the  ledge  is  to  be 
an  acrobat;  to  lie  on  the  floor  is  to  see  nothing  but  sky, 
besides  having  one's  members  violently  wrenched  one 
from  the  other.  Alma,  however,  was  very  comfortably 
placed  on  a  pile  of  sacks,  which  served  as  an  arm-chair, 
deadened  the  jerking  power  of  the  motion,  and  left  her 
head  and  shoulders  above  the  ledge,  so  that  she  could 
well  see  the  gray  surrounding  landscape  in  the  deepening 
haze. 

She  leaned  back  with  a  feeling  of  agreeable  languor, 
wrapped  her  hands  in  her  shawl,  and  gazed  dreamily  on 
the  down  rising  steeply  to  the  left,  and  forming,  where 
chalk  had  been  quarried  in  one  place,  a  miniature  preci- 
pice, crested  with  overhanging  copse,  rich  in  spring  with 
fairy  treasures  of  violets  in  white  sheets  over  the  moss, 
clusters  of  primroses  and  oxlips  among  the  hazel  stumps, 
blue  lakes  of  hyacinth,  and  waving  forests  of  anemone; 
and  she  gazed  on  the  sloping  fields,  farmsteads,  and 
bounding  forest  to  the  right,  lulled  by  the  steady  music 
of  the  bells,  among  which  she  heard  from  time  to  time 
William's  satisfied  growl  of  "Ay,  he  med  well  say  that," 
and  the  occasional  song  of  Jem,  as  he  trudged  along  by 
the  leader — 

Is  the  work  of  the  farmer's  bu-oy-oy." 
"For  to  plow,  and  to  sow,  and  to  reap,  and  to  mow, 

Happy  and  harmless  she  looked  in  her  rustic  chariot, 
as  they  rolled  slowly  along  in  the  gathering  gloom,  now 
over  a  heathy  stretch  nearly  at  the  summit  of  the  down, 
past  a  lonely,  steep-roofed,  red-tiled  hostelry,  \vith  a 
forge  cheerily  glowing  by  its  side,  whence  the  anvil 
music  rose  and  blended  pleasantly  w;ith  that  of  the  bell- 
team,  and  over  which  hung  a  sign-board  bearing  the 
blacksmith's  arms,  the  hammer,  with  the  couplet  in- 
scribed beneath,  "By  hammer  and  hand,  all  arts  do 
stand." 

Down  hill  now,  with  the  heavy  drag  cast  beneath  the 
wheel  by  mighty  efforts  on  the  part  of  Jem;  then  again 
on  the  level  road,  with  the  chalk-down  always  rising  to 


12  THE   SlijuXCE   OF  DEAN  XUTLASD. 

the  left,  and  falling  away  to  the  right;  past  farm-houses, 
where  the  cattle  stood  grouped  in  the  yard  and  the  ducks 
quacked  for  their  evening  meal;  then  once  more  down  a 
hill,  steep  and  difficult,  down  to  the  level  of  a  willow- 
shaded  stream  by  a  copse,  outside  which  daffodils  rioted 
all  over  the  sloping  lea  descending  to  the  brookside  in 
spring;  and  then  again  up  and  up,  with  straining  and 
panting  and  creaking,  with  iron  feet  pointed  into  and 
gripping  the  steep  chalk  road,  with  louder  pealing  of  the 
fairy  chimes,  whose  rhythm  grows  irregular  and  fitful, 
with  strange  shouts  and  gestures  from  the  men,  with 
"Whup!"  and  "Whoa!"  and  "Hither!"  with  many 
pauses,  when  the  great  heads  droop,  the  music  stops,  and 
the  mallet  is  brought  into  requisition. 

Happy  and  harmless  indeed  was  Alma,  the  lashes 
drooping  over  her  rose-leaf  cheeks,  her  fancies  roving 
unfettered.  She  was  hoping  to  get  home  betimes,  for 
she  had  something  nice  for  father's  tea  among  her  par- 
cels, and  she  was  thinking  of  the  penny  periodical  folded 
up  in  her  basket  and  wondering  how  the  heroine  was 
getting  on  in  the  story  which  broke  off  abruptly  at  such 
an  interesting  moment  in  the  last  number.  Was  the 
peasant  girl,  in  whom  Alma  detected  a  striking  likeness 
to  herself,  really  going  to  marry  the  poor  young  viscount 
who  was  so  deplorably  in  love  with  her?  She  could  not 
help  furnishing  the  viscount  with  the  form  and  feat- 
ures of  Mr.  Ingram  Swaynestone,  Sir  Lionel's  eldest  son, 
though  the  latter  was  fair,  while  the  viscount  was  dark. 

Now  they  are  at  the  summit  of  the  steep  hill,  and  pause 
to  breathe  and  replenish  pipes.  On  one  side  is  dense 
coppice;  on  the  other,  Swaynestone  Park  slopes  down  in 
woodland  glade,  and  park-like  meadow  to  the  sea- 
bounded  horizon.  Then  again,  up  hill  and  down  dale, 
past  cottage  and  farmstead,  with  the  park  always  sloping 
away  to  the  sea  on  the  right.  Lights  glow  cheerily  now 
from  distant  cottage  windows,  and  they  can  even  catch 
glimpses  of  lights  from  the  facade  of  Swaynestone  House 
between  the  trees  occasionally,  while  the  merry  music 
peals  on  in  its  drowsy  rhythm,  and  little  showers  of 
sparks  rise  at  the  contact  of  iron-shod  wheel  and  foot  with 
the  flinty  road. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  X3 

They  have  just  passed  the  entrance-gates  of  Swayne- 
stone — lonely  gates,  unfurnished  with  a  lodge — and  the 
wagon  stops  with  interrupted  music  at  some  smaller 
gates  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  where  the  upland  still 
rises,  not  in  bare  down,  but  in  rich  meadow,  to  a  hanging 
wood,  out  of  which  peeps  dimly  in  the  dusk  a  small  white 
structure,  built  with  a  colonnade  supporting  an  architrave, 
to  imitate  a  Greek  temple — Alma's  home. 

"Ay!  he  med  well  say  that,"  repeated  the  wagoner, 
still  digesting  the  pleasure  of  Ben  Lee's  compliment,  and 
slapping  the  wheel-horse's  vast  flank,  so  that  the  fairy 
chime  began  again,  and  the  smack  resounded  like  an 
accompaniment  to  its  music.  It  was  fairly  dark  in  the 
road ;  the  misty  dusk  of  evening  was  overshadowed  by  the 
thick  belt  of  chestnut,  lime,  and  beech  bounding  the  park 
by  the  roadside ;  and  the  large  horn  lantern  was  handed  to 
Alma  to  aid  her  in  gathering  her  parcels  together,  and  its 
light  fell  upon  her  bright  dark  eyes,  and  rosy,  dimpled 
cheeks,  making  her  appear  more  than  ever  as  if  her  gaudy 
dress  was  but  a  disguise  assumed  for  a  frolic.  Her 
almond-shaped,  rather  melancholy  eyes  sparkled  as  she 
looked  in  the  young  carter's  stolid  face,  and  thanked  him 
heartily. 

"I  have  had  such  a  nice  ride,"  she  added,  pleasantly, 
and  the  horses  one  by  one  dropped  a  bell-note  or  two  to 
emphasize  her  words. 

"You  must  gie  I  a  toll  for  this  yere  ride,"  returned 
William,  with  a  look  of  undisguised,  but  not  rude  admi- 
ration. 

Alma  flushed,  and  drew  back.  "How  much  do  you 
want?"  she  asked,  taking  out  her  purse,  and  pretending 
not  to  understand. 

"You   put  that  there  in  your  pocket,"  he   replied, 
offended,  "and  gie  I  a  kiss." 

"Indeed,  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  retorted 
Alma.  "Let  me  get  down.  I'll  never  ride  with  you 
again,  if  I  walk  till  I  drop — that  I  won't." 

But  the  wagoner  insisted  on  his  toll,  and  vowed  that 
she  should  not  descend  till  it  was  paid;  and  poor  Alma 
protested  and  stormed  vainly,  whilst  Jem  leaned  up 
against  a  horse  and  laughed,  and  adjured  her  to  make 


I4  THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

haste.  Alma  burst  into  tears,  wrung  her  hands,  and 
wished  that  she  had  not  been  so  obdurate  to  poor  Charlie 
Judkins.  He  would  not  have  been  so  rude,  she  knew. 
Nor,  indeed,  would  William  have  been  so  persistent  had 
she  not  offended  him  by  her  unlucky  offer  of  money,  and 
roused  the  dogged  obstinacy  of  his  class.  She  darted  to 
the  other  side  of  the  wagon,  but  in  vain;  William  was  too 
quick,  and  she  was  just  on  the  point  of  raising  her  voice, 
in  the  hope  that  her  father  might  be  near,  when  a  light, 
firm  step  was  heard  issuing  from  the-  park  gates,  and  a 
clear  and  singularly  musical  voice  broke  into  the  dispute 
with  a  tone  of  authority. 

"For  shame,  William  Grove!"  it  said.  "How  can  you 
be  so  cowardly?  Let  the  girl  go  directly.  Why,  it  is 
Alma  Lee,  surely!" 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  speaker  emerged  into  the  little  circle  of  light  cast 
by  the  lantern — a  slight,  well-built,  youthful  figure  of 
middle  height,  yet  commanding  presence,  clad  in  dark 
gray,  with  a  round,  black  straw  hat  and  a  neat  white 
necktie,  the  frequent  costume  of  a  country  curate  in 
those  days,  when  the  clerical  garb  had  not  reached  so 
high  a  stage  of  evolution  as  at  present.  His  beardless 
face  made  him  look  still  younger  than  he  really  was;  his 
features  were  refined  and  clearly  cut ;  his  hair  very  dark ; 
and  his  eyes,  the  most  striking  feature  of  his  face,  were 
of  that  rare,  dazzling  light  blue  which  can  only  be  com- 
pared to  a  cloudless,  noon  sky  in  June,  when  the  pale, 
intense  blue  seems  penetrated  to  overflowing  with  lioods 
of  vivid  light. 

"I  waren't  doing  no  harm,"  returned  the  wagoner, 
with  a  kind  of  surly  respect;  "I  gied  she  a  ride,  and  she 
med  so  well  gie  I  a  kiss." 

"And  you  a  married  man!"  cried  the  indignant  young 
deacon;  "for  shame!" 

"There  ain't  no  harm  in  a  kiss,"  growled  William  with 
a  sheepish,  discomfited  look,  while  he  stood  aside  and 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAX   MAITLANJ).  15 

suffered  the  newcomer  to  help  Alma  in  her  descent. 

"There  is  great  harm  in  insulting  a  respectable  young 
woman,  and  taking  advantage  of  her  weakness.  As  for  a 
kiss,  it  is  not  a  seemly  thing  between  young  people  who 
have  no  claim  on  each  other,  though  there  may  be  no 
positive  harm  in  it.  You  ought  to  know  better, 
William." 

"There  ain't  no  harm  for  the  likes  of  we,''  persisted 
the  wagoner.  "  'Tain't  as  though  Alma  was  a  lady ;  she's 
only  a  poor  man's  daughter." 

"And  a  poor  man's  daughter  has  as  much  right  to 
men's  respect  as  a  duchess,"  cried  the  young  fellow,  with 
animation.  "I  wonder  you  can  say  such  a  thing,  Grove. 
And  you  a  poor  man  yourself,  with  a  little  daughter  of 
your  own!  How  would  vou  like  her  to  be  kissed  against 
her  will?" 

William  muttered  to  the  effect  that  "Anybody  med 
kiss  she" — which  was  true  enough,  as  she  had  seen  but 
three  summers  yet — and  went  on  twining  his  whip  with  a 
cowed,  injured  look,  while  Alma  gazed  in  awed  admira- 
tion at  her  handsome  young  companion,  whose  kindling 
eyes  seemed  to  send  forth  floods  of  pale-blue  light  in  the 
gloom. 

"There  is  something  so  unmanly  in  attacking  a  girl's 
self-respect,"  continued  the  eager  champion.  "I  did  not 
think  you  capable  of  it,  William.  A  stout  fellow  like  you, 
a  man  I  always  liked.  Go  home  to  your  wife,  and 
think  better  of  it.  I  will  see  you  across  the  meadow 
myself,  Alma,  though  it  is  hard  that  a  girl  cannot  be 
abroad  alone  at  this  hour." 

So  saying,  the  young  Bayard  possessed  himself  of  sun- 
dry of  Alma's  parcels,  and  with  a  pleasant  "Good-night, 
Jem,"  turned  his  back  on  the  wagon  and  opened  tht 
gate, through  which  Alma  passed  quickly,  followed  by  her 
protector,  while  the  cumbrous  wagon  went  on  its  way  to 
the  rhythmic  jangle  of  the  sweetly  clashing  bells,  and 
Wiliam  trudged  stolidly  on  with  his  accustomed  whip- 
crackings  and  guttural  exclamations,  murmuring  from 
time  to  time  with  a  mortified  air,  "There  ain't  no  harm 
in  a  kiss!"  And,  indeed,  he  meant  no  harm,  though  he 
took  care  not  to  relate  the  incident  to  his  wife;  it  was 
only  his  rough  tribute  to  Alma's  unaccustomed  beauty, 


1 6  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  M AIT  LAND. 

and  signified  no  more  than  a  gracefully  turned  allusion 
in  higher  circles.  "And  Mr.  Cyril  must  go  a-spiling  of 
she,"  he  added,  "as  though  she  didn't  look  too  high 
already.  But  pride  goes  before  a  fall,  as  I've  heerd  'un 
say."  Ominous  repetition  of  Judkin's  words! 

Alma,  in  the  meantime,  murmured  her  thanks  to  her 
chivalrous  protector,  and  stepped  up  the  dewy  meadow 
with  a  beatifig  breast  and  a  flushing  cheek,  her  ears  ting- 
ling with  the  words,  "A  poor  man's  daughter  has  as 
much  right  to  respect  as  a  duchess,"  her  heart  swelling  at 
the  memory  of  the  courtesy  with  which  Maitland  handed 
her  down  from  the  wagon  and  carried  half  her  parcels; 
she  knew  that  a  veritable  duchess  would  not  have  been 
treated  witli  more  honor.  All  her  life  she  had  known 
Cyril  Maitland.  She  had  sported  with  him  over  that 
very  lea,  where  the  tall  yellow  cowslips  nodded  in  spring, 
and  where  they  had  pelted  each  other  with  sweet,  heavy 
cowslip-balls ;  she  had  kissed  and  cuffed  him  many  a  time, 
though  he  was  always  "Master  Cyril"  to  the  coachman's 
child ;  and  as  they  grew  up,  had  been  inclined  to  discuss 
him  with  a  half-respectful,  half-familiar  disparagement, 
such  as  well-known  objects  receive.  Never  till  that 
fatal  evening  had  his  grace  of  mind  and  person  and  the 
singular  charm  of  his  manner  keenly  touched  her.  But 
when  he  stood  there  in  the  lantern's  dim  rays,  looking  so 
handsome  and  so  animated  by  the  impulsive  chivalry 
with  which  he  defended  her,  and  she  heard  the  musical 
tones  and  refined  accents  of  the  voice  pleading  her 
cause  and  the  cause  of  her  sex  and  her  class,  a  new  spirit 
came  to  her — a  spirit  of  sweetness  and  of  terror,  which 
set  all  her  nerves  quivering,  and  opened  a  new  world  of 
wonder  and  beauty  to  her  entranced  gaze.  As  holy  as  a 
young  archangel,  and  as  beautiful,  he  seemed  to  the  sim- 
ple girl's  dazzled  thoughts,  and  she  felt  that  no  harm 
could  ever  come  to  her  in  that  charmed  presence,  no  pain 
ever  touch  her. 

All  unconscious  of  the  tumult  of  half-conscious  emo- 
tion awakening  beside  him,  Cyril  Maitland  walked  on, 
chatting  with  pleasant  ease  on  all  sorts  of  homely  topics, 
in  nowise  surprised  at  his  companion's  faltering,  inco- 
herent replies,  which  he  attributed  to  the  embarrassment 
from  which  he  had  just  delivered  her.  The  dulcet  clash- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  iy 

ing  of  the  bells  grew  fainter,  and  then  rose  on  a  sudden 
gust  of  wind  just  as  they  reached  the  door  of  the 
strangely  built  white  house,  before  the  square  windows  of 
which  rose  a  small  colonnade  of  white  pillars.  Alma 
opened  the  door,  and  a  ruddy  glow  rushed  out  upon  her, 
while  within  a  cheerful  little  home  scene  presented  itself. 
A  small  table  covered  with  a  clean,  white  cloth,  touched 
with  rose  by  the  firelight,  and  spread  with  tea-things,  was 
drawn  up  before  the  glowing  hearth,  and  a  warm  aroma 
of  tea  and  toast  greeted  the  tired,  hungry  girl.  Before 
the  fire  sat  a  strong,  middle-aged  man  in  an  undress 
livery,  consisting  partly  of  a  sleeved  waistcoat,  busily 
engaged  in  making  toast ;  while  a  neatly  dressed  woman 
moved  about  the  warm  parlor,  adding  a  few  touches  to 
the  table. 

"Just  in  time,  Alma,  "  called  out  the  man,  without 
turning  his  head. 

"  And  a  pretty  time,  too,  "  added  the  woman,  who  was 
Alma's  step-mother.  "Why  hadn't  you 'a  come  along 
with  Charlie  Judkins  this  hour  agone?  Gadding  about 
till  it's  dark  night —  O,  Mr.  Cyril,  I  beg  your  pardon, 
sir!"  and  she  dropped  a  courtesy,  while  her  husband 
turned,  and  rose. 

"May  I  come  in?"  asked  Cyril,  pausing,  hat  in  hand, 
and  smiling  his  genial  srnile.  "Your  tea  is  very  tempt- 
ing, Mrs.  Lee." 

"Come  in  and  welcome,  Master  Cyril,"  said  the  coach- 
man, as  C37ril,  with  the  air  of  an  accustomed  guest, 
placed  his  hat  on  a  side-table  adorned  with  the  family 
Bible,  work-boxes,  and  tea-trays,  and  took  the  chair  Mrs. 
Lee  handed  him. 

'  V/hy ,  I' ve  not  had  tea  with  you  for  an  age, ' '  continued 
Ovril,  stroking  a  large  tabby  cat,  which  sprung  purr- 
ing upon  his  knee  the  moment  he  was  seated;  and  I 
don't  deserve  any  now,  since  I  come  straight  from  the 
drawing-room  at  Swiynestone,  where  the  rites  of  the 
teapot  are  being  celebrated.  But  the  ladies  there  have 
no  idea  of  tea-making,  and  I  only  had  two  cups,  and  was 
tantalized  with  a  vague  sketch  of  a  piece  of  bread  and 
butter." 

"Well  you  always  were  a  rare  one  for  tea,  Master 
Cyril,"  returned  his  hostess.  "If  I  had  but  known  you 


18  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

were  coming,  I'd  a  made  some  of  them  hot  cakes.  But 
there's  jam  in  plenty,  some  blackberry  as  Alma  made  this 
fall." 

"Alma  came  by  Long's  wagon,"  he  explained,  when 
she  had  withdrawn  to  lay  aside  her  hat  and  shawl ;  "and 
as  I  chanced  to  be  at  the  gate  when  she  got  down,  I  saw 
her  across  the  meadow." 

"Thank  'ee  kindly,  Master  Cyril.  I  don't  like  her  to 
be  out  alone  at  nights,"  said  Ben  Lee,  "though,  to  be 
sure,  there's  only  our  own  people  about  on  the  estate." 

Before  Alma's  mind  there  arose  the  vision  of  the  S  wayne- 
stone  drawing-room  as  she  had  seen  it  once  at  tea-time 
when  she  was  summoned  to  speak  to  the  young  ladies 
about  some  needlework  she  was  doing  for  them.  She 
saw  in  imagination  the  long  range  of  windows  with  their 
rich  curtains  ;  the  mirrors  and  couches ;  the  cabinets 
filled  with  rare  and  costly  bric-a-brac  ;  the  statuettes  and 
pictures  ;  the  painted  ceiling  of  the  long,  lofty  room  ;  the 
beautiful  chimney-piece  of  sculptured  Parian  maible  ; 
the  rich  glow  from  the  hearth  throwing  all  kinds  of 
warm  reflections  upon  the  splendid  apartment,  and  prin- 
cipally upon  the  little  table,  laden  with  silver  and  price- 
less china,  by  the  fire  ;  and  the  charming  group  of  ladies 
in  their  stylish  dress  and  patrician  beaut}-,  half- seen  in 
the  fire-lit  dusk.  It  was  a  world  of  splendor  to  Alma's 
unaccustomed  eyes — a  place  in  which  an  ordinary  mortal 
could  in  no  wise  sit  down  with  any  comfort,  without,  in- 
deed, a  something  almost  amounting  to  sacrilege  ;  a. 
world  in  which  the  perfume  of  hot- house  flowers  took 
away  the  bated  breath,  and  in  which  no  footfall  dared 
echo  ;  where  voices  were  low  and  musical,  and  manners 
full  of  courteous  ease;  a  world  inhabited  by  b?jii£S  un- 
touched by  common  cares,  with  other  thoughts,  and 
softer,  more  beautifully  adorned  lives  ;  a  world  which 
Alma  entered  with  a  burdensome  sense  of  being  out  of 
place,  in  which  she  only  spoke  when  spoken  to,  and 
where  she  heard  herself  discussed  as  if  she  were  a  thing 
without  hearing. 

"What!  is  this  Lee's  daughter?''  Lady  Swaynestone 
had  asked,  putting  up  her  gold  rimmed  glasses,  and  tak- 
ing a  quiet  survey  of  Alma  and  her  blushes. 

"Surely  you  remember  little  Alma  Lee,    mother," 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  19 

Ethel  Swaynestone  replied.  "She  has  shot  up,  you  see, 
like  the  rest  of  us. " 

"Ah,  to  be  sure!  How  the  time  goes,  Ethel!  How  is 
your  mother,  Alma?  And  is  she  embroidering  Maude's 
handkerchiefs?  A  very  nice  employment  for  a  young 
woman.  But  I  don't  like  her  gown;  it  is  far  too  smart 
for  a  coachman's  daughter." 

"Nonsense,  mother  dear.  Why  shouldn't  she  be 
smart,  if  she  likes?  But  if  you  want  really  to  look  nice, 
Alma,  you  must  not  wear  violet  and  pale-blue  together," 
s.ii.l  the  fair-haired  Maude,  with  a  sweet  look  of  interest 
in  Alma's  appearance  that  won  her  heart,  wounded  as  it 
was  by  "her  ladyship's"  want  of  consideration. 

Very  glad  was  Alma  to  retire  from  that  august  pres- 
ence— almost  as  glad  as  she  had  been  to  enter  it.  And 
Mr.  Cyril  had  walked  straight  from  the  splendid  apart- 
ment, from  the  light  of  Miss  Ethel  and  Miss  Maude's 
eyes,  and  the  sound  of  their  sweet,  cultured  voices,  with 
a  disparaging  remark  upon  their  tea,  and  chosen  Alma's 
own  humble  everyday  dwelling  and  homely  meal  in  the 
narrow  room  in  preference.  This  filled  her  with  a 
strange,  indefinable  emotion,  half  pleasure  and  half  pain. 
Some  instinct  told  her  that  he  was  the  same  welcomed, 
admired  guest  there  as  here;  that  he  spoke  with  the  same 
easy  charm  to  Lady  Swaynestone  and  her  daughters  and 
the  high  born  visitors  he  chanced  to  meet  there  as  to  her 
parents  and  herself.  And  could  her  imagination  have 
borne  her  into  Cyril's  future,  she  would  have  seen  him, 
as  he  subsequently  was,  a  welcomed  frequent  guest  at 
royal  tables,  where  his  beautiful  voice  and  perfect  man- 
ner cast  the  same  glamour  over  the  palace  atmosphere  as 
over  that  of  the  coachman's  little  dwelling. 

Quickly  as  Alma  returned  to  the  parlor,  she  yet  found 
time  to  arrange  her  rich  hair  and  add  a  necklace  of  amber 
beads,  thus  imparting  a  kind  of  gvpsy  splendor  to  her 
dark  face,  and  other  little  trifles  to  her  dress  ;  and  very 
handsome  she  looked  in  the  firelight — for  the  one  candle 
but  empVmsi?.ed  the  gloom — with  that  new  sparkle  in  her 
eyes  and  flush  on  her  cheek.  It  was  Cyril  who  recom- 
mended her  to  toast  the  sausages  she  had  brought  from 
Oldport  instead  of  frying  them;  he  and  Lilian  had  often 
cooked  them  so  in  the  school-room  at  home,  he  said, 


20  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

when  Mrs.  Lee  demurred  at  trusting  to  his  culinary  skill. 
It  was  Cyril  also  who  suggested  the  agreeable  addition  of 
cold  potatoes  warmed  up. 

"Well,  Master  Cyril,  I  never  thought  to  see  you  teach 
my  wife  cooking,"  laughed  Ben,  paying  a  practical  com- 
pliment to  his  skill.  "Hand  Master  Cyril  some  tea, 
Alma;  and  do  you  taste  the  sausage,  my  girl.  Why, 
where's  your  appetite  after  tramping  all  the  way  into 
Oldport,  and  nothing  but  a  bit  of  bread  and  cheese  since 
breakfast.  You  shan't  walk  there  and  back  again  any 
more;  that  and  the  shopping  is  too  much.  And  so  you 
came  along  part  of  the  way  in  Long's  wagon,  when  you 
mjght  have  been  tooled  along  by  the  best  hoise  in  our 
stables,  and  Jndkins  fit  to  cry  about  it.  Now,  don't  you 
call  that  silly,  Mr.  Cyril?" 

"Every  one  to  his  taste,  Ben.     I  prefer  the  dog-cart." 

"And  it  ain't  every  day  a  girl  like  Alma  gets  a  chance 
of  riding  behind  such  a  horse  or  beside  such  a  young 
man,"  added  Mrs.  Lee  severely.  "But  there's  people  as 
never  knows  where  their  bread  s  buttered." 

"There  are  people,"  said  Alma  with  a  toss  of  her 
graceful  head,  "as  know  what  they've  a  mind  to  do,  and 
doit." 

"And  there's  headstrong  girls  as  live  to  repent,"  re- 
torted the  step-mother. 

"Ay,  you  was  always  a  wilful  one,  Alma,"  said  her 
father;  "but  if  you  don't  look  out  you'll  be  an  old  maid, 
and  you  won't  like  that.  And  a  smarter  fellow  than 
Charlie  Judkins  never  crossed  a  horse.  No  drink  with 
Charlie — goes  to  church  regular,  and  has  a  matter  of 
fifty  pound  in  the  bank,  and  puts  by  every  week.  And 
Sir  Lionel  ready  to  find  him  a  cottage  and  raise  his  wages 
when  he  marries." 

"Well,  let  him  marry,  then,"  returned  Alma,  airily; 
"I  don't  want  to  prevent  him.  I  dare  say  Mr.  Cyril 
would  be  kind  enough  to  perform  the  ceremony,  if  he 
wished  it." 

"I  should  have  the  greatest  pleasure,  Alma,  particularly 
if  he  choose  a  certain  friend  of  mine.  For,  as}rour  father 
says,  Charlie  is  a  really  good  fellow,  as  warm-hearted  a 
man  as  I  know,  and  deserves  a  good  wife." 

'  'There  are  plenty  of  good  wives  to  be  had, ' '  returned 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  2l 

Alma;  "no  doubt  Mr.  Jndkins  will  soon  find  one,  es- 
pecially as  he  has  so  many  friends  to  put  in  a  word  for 
him." 

"Ay,  and  he  might  have  the  pick  of  girls  in  Malbouiue, 
and  five  miles  around,"  added  Mrs.  Lee. 

"And  Charlie  won't  stand  Alma's  hoity-toity  airs 
much  longer,"  chimed  in  her  father.  "He  was  terrible 
angry  this  afternoon,  and  talked  about  stuck-up  faggots, 
he  did.  And  you  rising  twenty-two,  and  refused  Mr.  In- 
grain's own  man.  I  don't  know  what'd  be  good  enough 
for  ye,  Alma,  I  don't,  without  it  was  Mr.  Ingram  hisself. 
Ain't  she  a  wilful  one,  Mr.  Cyril?" 

"We  musn't  be  hard  upon  her,  Ben.  She  hasariuht 
to  refuse  a  man  if  she  doesn't  care  for  him.  But  any  girl 
might  think  twice  before  refusing  Charlie  Judkins,"  said 
Cyril,  in  his  gentle  gracious  way.  "I  was  to  tell  you, 
Mrs.  I/ee,"  he  added,  "that  we  are  running  short  of  tg^s 
at  the  recton7,  and  ask  if  your  fowls  were  laying  enough 
to  spare?" 

"Ourn  have  mostly  given  over  laying,  but  Mrs.  Mait- 
land  shall  have  a  dozen  so  soon  as  Alma  can  get  over  to- 
morrow. Why,  you  don't  bide  at  the  rectory  now,  sir?" 

"No.  I  have  rooms  in  my  own  parish  at  Sliotover." 
he  replied;  "but  I  am  always  running  in  and  out  at 
home.  It  is  only  a  mile  and  a-half,  you  know;  and  Shot- 
over  is  such  a  tiny  parish,  it  leaves  us  very  idle." 

"That's  well  for  your  book  learning,  Mr.  Cyril.  I 
reckon  you.  have  to  know  a  great  deal  more  before  you 
can  bepriested  next  Trinity.  When  are  ye  coming  over 
to  Malbourne  to  preach  to  we?" 

"Oh,  not  fora  long  while,  Ben.  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
never  have  the  assurance  to  preach  to  all  you  grave  and 
reverend  seigniors.  I  don't  even  preach  at  Shotover  if  I 
can  help  it,"  he  replied  with  an  air  of  ingenuous  modesty 
that  became  him  well. 

"You  mun  get  over  that,  sir,"  continued  Ben.  "You 
mun  think  of  Timothy.  He  was  to  let  no  man  despise  his 
youth,  you  mind." 

"Certainly,  Ben.  But  I  have  only  been  ordained 
three  months,  and  I  may  well  hold  my  tongue  till  I  have 
learned  a  little  wisdom.  Ah,  Ben,  you  can't  imagine 
what  a  dreadful  ordeal  it  is  to  preach  one's  first  sermon! 


22  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MA1TLAND. 

I  feel  cold  water  running  down  my  back  when  I  think  of 
it.  They  say  my  face  was  whiter  than  my  surplice,  and  my 
voice  sounded  so  loud  and  strange  in  my  ears  I  thought 
it  must  frighten  people,  instead  of  which  they  could 
scarcely  hear  me. ' ' 

"Lauk-a-mercy,  Mr.  Cyril,  you'll  soon  get  over  that," 
said  Mrs.  Lee  in  a  tone  of  consolation.  "That's  just 
how  I  felt  the  first  time  I  acted  parlor  maid,  Jane  being 
took  ill,  and  a  party  to  dinner,  and  I  housemaid.  You 
mid  'a  seen  the  glasses  knock  up  agen  the  decanter  when 
I  filled  them,  the  jellies  all  a-tremble  with  the  palpita- 
tions— not  to  mention  the  first  time  I  walked  into  Mai- 
bourne  Church  with  Lee,  and  made  sure  I  should  'a 
dropped  every  step  I  took  up  the  aisle,  and  all  them  boys 
staring,  and  your  pa  beginning  'the  wicked  man!'  But 
law!  I  thinks  nothing  of  it  now." 

"You  may  still  hear  my  teeth  chatter  in  Shotover 
Church,  nevertheless,  Mrs.  Lee,"  replied  Cyril,  softly 
stroking  the  cat,  which  still  nestled  purring  on  his  knee, 
and  casting  an  amused  glance  on  Mrs.  Lee  and  on  Alma, 
whose  face  expressed  the  most  sj^mpathetic  interest. 
"But,  asyousay,  I  shall  get  over  it  in  time.  And, indeed, 
if  the  congregation  consisted  of  Alma,  and  Lilian,  and 
Mr.  Ingram  Swayriestone,  and  his  sisters,  I  shouldn't 
mind  preaching  at  Malbourne.  Fellow-sinners  of  my  own 
age  are  not  so  appalling." 

"Ay,  with  a  head  like  yourn,  you  med  be  a  bishop  some 
day,"  observed  Lee  thoughtfully.  "What's  this  yere 
thing  they  made  ye  at  college?  someat  to  do  with  quarrel- 
ing?" 

"A  wrangler." 

"Ah!  You  may  depend  upon  it,  it's  a  fine  thing  to  be 
a  wrangler.  Mr.  Ingram,  now,  they  only  made  he  a  rus- 
tic; but  he  was  at  t'other  place — Oxford  they  calls  it." 

"He  was  rusticated,  "said  Cyril,  gravely.  "Thatisnot 
so  advantageous  as  being  made  a  wrangler." 

"You  see,  I  was  right  after  all,  mother,"  Alma  inter- 
posed; "and  you  always  would  have  it  that  Mr.  Cyril  was 
a  mangier.  As  if  they  had  mangles  at  Cambridge!" 
"You'd  better  be  less  forward  with  your  tongue,  and 
get  on  with  yourvittles,  miss.  Why,  bless  the  girl,  she's 
eat  nothing,  and  if  that  ain't  the  third  time  she've  put 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  23 

sugar  into  the  milk  jug  by  mistake!  Why,  father,  what- 
ever's  come  to  her?" 

Alma  blushed  prettily,  but  her  confusion  almost 
amounted  to  distress;  and  Cyril,  with  his  ready  tact, 
again  drew  attention  from  her. 

"You  must  not  imagine,"  he  said,  "that  I  have  to  pass 
my  time  in  strife  and  dissension  because  I  am  a  wrangler. 
Quite  the  contrary.  Thank  you  for  the  tea,  Mrs.  Lee. 
Good-night,  Ben;"  and,  placing  the  cat  very  gently  on 
the  warm  hearth,  and  shaking  hands  with  his  hosts,  Cyril 
rose,  took  his  hat,  and  followed  Alma  out  into  the  dark- 
ness. 

She  bore  the  candle,  and  by  its  light  guided  him  to  the 
little  wicket  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  where,  with  a 
courtesy,  she  bid  him  good-night. 

"Good-night,  Alma,"  he  returned,  carelessly,  and 
stepped  briskly  down  the  dark  meadow,  the  grass  of  which 
was  crisp  now  by  the  frost;  while  Alma  remained  at  the 
wicket,  that  he  might  have  the  benefit  of  the  candle's 
feeble  ray. 

When  he  was  halfway  across,  he  suddenly  stopped  and 
turned. 

"Oh,  Alma!"  he  cried,  retracing  his  steps,  when  she 
looked  up  with  startled  inquiry  in  his  face;  "I  quite  forgot 
the  very  thing  I  came  for."  Here  he  paused,  overcome 
with  surprise  at  the  vivid,  tense  expression  of  Alma's 
bright  face,  and  a  ray  of  illumination  shot  over  the  some- 
thing he  had  observed  in  the  house,  the  absent  manner 
and  the  lack  of  appetite,  and  accounted  for  her  disparage- 
ment of  the  enamored  Judkins.  By  these  signs  he 
knew  that  Alma  was  in  love  with  some  other  swain.  "I 
quite  forgot  Miss  Lilian's  message  to  you.  My  sister  is 
getting  up  a  Bible  class  for  young  women,  and  she  wishes 
you  to  join.  She  is  to  hold  it  in  her  room  at  the  rectory 
after  even-song  on  Sunday  afternoon.  Will  you  come?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Cyril!  You  see  I  should  be 
dark  home  these  winter  nights,"  returned  Alma,  hesitat- 
ing and  blushing,  and  looking  up  at  Cyril  and  down  on 
the  frosted  grass  and  up  again. 

"Well,  you  can  talk  it  over  with  Miss  Lilian  when  you 
bring  the  eggs.  I  think  we  might  get  over  the  difficulty 


24  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

of  getting  home  in  the  dark.  If  that  is  all  I  might  see 
you  home  myself. " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Cyril!" 

There  was  a  quiver  and  flash  and  illumination  in  the 
words  and  look  of  the  simple,  unconscious  girl  which 
shot  like  electric  flame  through  her  interlocutor's  frame, 
and  made  him  speechless.  The  blue  radiance  from  his 
eyes  mingled  for  a  moment  with  the  dark  fire  of  Alma's 
and  a  strange  unaccustomed  tremor,  that  was  not  all 
pain,  set  his  pulses  to  beating  as  they  were  not  used  to  beat, 
and  stirred  all  the  currents  of  his  blood. 

"Good-night,  Alma,"  he  said,  shortly,  and  in  a  voice  so 
unlike  his  own  that  the  girl  stood  petrified  in  pained 
amazement;  and  he  turned,  and  sped  swiftly  over  the 
crisp  grass  to  the  gate,  glad  to  be  out  of  the  influence  of 
the  solitary  candle's  dim  light. 

He  let  the  gate  fall  to  with  a  crash  which  made  it  vibrate 
backward  and  forward  for  some  minutes  before  it  found 
rest,  and  strode  rapidly  over  the  dark  highway  beneath 
the  trees. 

"What  have  I  done?"  he  muttered  with  a  beating 
heart.  "Oh,  my  God!  I  meant  no  harm.  What  have  I 
done?" 

Yet  the  warm  delicious  glow  still  lingered,  paining 
him  in  his  breast,  and  he  strode  on  with  his  head  bent 
down,  humbled  and  wretched.  His  soul  was  yet  spotless 
as  the  untrodden  snow;  all  his  hopes  and  tastes  were 
innocent,  the  fierce  flame  of  temptation  had  never  yet 
cast  its  scorching  glare  upon  him,  hitherto  he  had  deemed 
himself  invulnerable.  In  his  trouble,  he  put  his  hand 
instinctively  in  his  pockets,  where  nestled  as  usual  the 
rubbed  covers  of  his  "Visitations  and  Prayers  for  the 
Sick,"  and  other  devotional  books,  and  was  comforted, 
lie  lifted  his  head  and  felt  in  his  breast-pocket  for  a 
letter,  the  pressure  of  which,  though  he  could  not  read  it 
beneath  that  dark  dome  of  solid  night,  fully  restored  the 
serenity  ofhisface.  It  began  "Dearest  Cyril,"  and  ended, 
'  Kver  affectionately  yours,  Marion  Everard;"  it  alluded 
»>  the  pains  of  separation,  and  the  hopes  expressed  by 
Cyril  of  a  possible  marriage  in  a  year's  time. 

They  had  been  engaged  a  whole  year,  and  the  necessity 
of  waiting  another  year  before  marriage  was  the  tragedy 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


?  5 


of  their  young  lives.  A  year  seemed  an  eternity  to  them, 
and  the  life  they  passed  apart  from  each  other  no  life.  A 
vision  of  Marion's  gentle  face  brightened  the  curtain  of 
thick  darkness  spread  before  Cyril.  He  recalled  her 
tones  and  looks  with  a  rush  of  sweet  affection — all  the 
tender  looks  she  had  ever  given  him,  and  they  were 
many,  but  he  could  not  recall  any  one  look  that  resem- 
bled the  glance  of  fervid,  unquenchable  passion  which 
flished  from  Alma's  tell-tale  eyes  in  that  fatal  moment  at 
Llie  gate.  Such  a  look  he  had  beheld  in  no  woman's 
eyes;  such  a  look,  he  feared,  in  the  narrowness  of  his 
serene  purity,  could  light  no  good  woman's  eyes. 

He  was  wrong.  The  flame  which  burned  in  poor,  in- 
nocent Alma's  breast,  and  which  guileless  nature  so 
rashly  and  unconsciously  betrayed,  descended  like  a  celes- 
tial glory  upon  her  life  with  a  purifying  and  strengthening 
power,  which  could  have  lifted  her  to  unimagined  sum- 
mits of  heroism. 

There  are  people  whose  lives  are  never  touched  by  pas- 
sion, and  who,  when  they  come  in  contact  with  it,  recog- 
nize only  its  strength,  which  they  dread,  and  condemn  its 
mysteries  as  baleful.  Such  was  Cyril  in  these  white 
young  days  of  his  before  any  shadow  fell  upon  his  sunny, 
safe  path.  Such  was  not  Cyril  in  after-days,  when  the 
agony  of  the  penitent  and  evil-doer  found  a  responsive 
echo  in  his  heart,  and  made  him  pitiful  and  lenient  in 
judging  character  and  discriminating  motives.  But  to- 
night, in  spite  of  the  momentary  glow  for  which  he  so 
despised  himself,  he  drew  the  robe  of  the  Pharisee  about 
his  upright  soul,  and  cast  a  stone  of  condemnation  upon 
the  sufferer  as  he  passed  her  swiftly  by. 

Alma  remained  statue-like,  with  her  solitary  light 
painting  a  feeble  halo  on  the  all-encompassing  gloom, 
'•.uitil  Cyril's  steps  had  ceased  to  echo  along  the  lonely 
hi~hwav,  and  her  mother  called  to  her  to  bring  back  the 
candle  and  shut  the  door. 

As  soon  as  she  had  obeyed,  she  found  a  pretext  for 
<7oing  to  her  room,  and  there,  sitting  down  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed  in  the  dark,  she  burst  into  tears. 

"I  am  tired,  and  William  Grove  frightened  me,"  she 
said  to  herself;  and  a  few  minutes  later  she  was  at  needle- 
work in  the  parlor,  singing  like  any  wild  bird. 


26  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  warm  glimmer  of  ruddy  light  on  the  thick  darkness 
told  Cyril  of  the  approach  of  the  wheelwright's  house 
and  shop,  and,  passing  this  and  descending  the  hill,  he 
became  aware  of  the  rich  crimson  which  marked  the 
lower  windows  of  the  Sun  Inn,  and  found  himself  at  the 
end  of  the  wheelwright's  yard,  at  the  meeting  of  four 
roads.  Opposite  the  Sun,  and  colored  by  its  light,  a  sign- 
post reared  itself  at  the  corner,  oblique  and  appearing  to 
gesticulate  madly  with  its  outspread  arms.  This  corner 
turned,  all  the  village  sparkled  out  in  a  little  constella- 
tion of  cottage  casements  before  his  gaze;  and  there,  be- 
yond the  brook,  which  murmured  faintly  in  the  stillness, 
the  rectory  windows  shone  out  among  masses  of  foliage, 
or  rather  of  branches,  behind  which  the  gray  church 
spire  lifted  itself  unseen  in  the  mirk.  As  soon  as  Cyril's 
foot  was  within  the  gate,  a  sudden  illumination  from  the 
hall  door,  which  simultaneously  opened,  poured  itself 
upon  the  drive,  and  showed  him  the  outline  of  a  woman's 
young  and  graceful  figure  in  the  porch. 

"Did  you  hear  me  coming,  Lilian?1'  asked  he,  entering 
the  house.  "Your  hearing  must  indeed  be  acute." 

"Did  we  hear  him,  Mark  Antony?"  echoed  Lilian,  ad- 
dressing a  magnificent  black  cat,  with  white  breast  and 
paws,  which  had  been  sitting  upon  the  step  at  her  feet, 
and  gazing  with  grave  expectancy  down  the  drive  till 
Cyril  reached  the  door,  when  he  rose,  and  respectfully 
greeted  him  with  elevated  tail  and  gentle  mews,  inter- 
spersed with  purring.  "You  know  that  puss  and  I  have 
an  extra  sense,  which  tells  us  when  you  are  coming,"  she 
replied  lightly,  as  she  passed  her  arm  through  his,  and 
led  him  through  the  little  hall  into  the  drawing1  room,  on 
the  threshold  of  which  a  terrier  and  a  pug  sprang  out  to 
greet  the  new-comer  with  short  barks  of  joy  and  sudden 
bounds  and  various  wild  expressions  of  delight — an  indis- 
creet behavior,  quietly  rebuked  by  two  swift  but  dignified 
strokes  of  Mark  Antony's  white  velvet  paw,  which  sent 
the  heedless  animals,  with  dismal  yelps  and  mortified 
tails,  to  a  respectful  distance. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  37 

A  lady  lay  on  a  sofa  near  the  fire,  and  a  boy  and  a  girl 
of  some  eight  and  nine  years  rolled  on  the  hearth-rug 
with  some  toys.  These  children,  with  Cyril  and  Lilian, 
who  were  twins,  constituted  the  sole  remainder  of  Mrs. 
Maitland's  once  too  numerous  family.  What  with  bear- 
ing and  rearing  them  all,  and  the  sorrow  of  losing  so 
many,  her  strength  was  now  exhausted,  and  the  prime  of 
her  life  was  passed  chiefly  on  that  sofa,  among  its  warm 
rugs.  Cyril  bent  to  kiss  her  and  a  look  of  pride  and  joy 
lightened  her  pale,  refined  face  as  she  gazed  upon  him. 

The  children  sprang  upon  Cyril,  and  he,  having 
caressed  them,  took  a  seat  by  Lilian,  who  was  at  the 
writing  table,  from  which  she  had  risen  on  his  approach. 

"Will  it  do?"  he  asked,  gazing  upon  some  manuscript 
before  her. 

"I  think  so,"  she  replied.  "I  have  drawn  a  line 
through  the  most  ornate  passages.  But  you  must  really 
try  and  adapt  yourself  to  your  congregation,  Cyril.  This 
goes  completely  over  their  heads.  Be  less  elaborate,  and 
speak  from  your  heart  simply  and  honestly." 

"The  discipline  which  turns  out  Wranglers,"  observed 
Cyril,  with  a  dry  little  smile,  "does  not  train  popular  rustic 
preachers." 

"Cyril's  sermons  again?"  asked  Mrs.  Maitland. 
"Lilian  should  compose  them  entirely,  I  think.  And  yet 
I  am  wrong,  for  I  doubt  if  either  of  you  could  do  any- 
thing without  the  other.'' 

The  twins  smiled,  knowing  this  to  be  perfectly  true. 
They  were  alike,  and  yet  different.  Lilian's  features  were 
fuller  than  Cyril's;  her  eyes  softer  and  of  a  gray  color, 
but  they  met  the  gazer  with  an  even  more  powerful  elec- 
tric thrill  than  Cyril's  light  blue  orbes;  her  hair  was 
many  shades  lighter  than  her  brother's*  and  while  Cyril 
could  not  appear  in  any  assembly  without  exciting  inter- 
est and  drawing  all  eyes  to  himself,  Lilian  had  a  peculiar 
manner  of  pervading  places  without  attracting  the  slight- 
est observation.  Gradually  one  became  aware  of  an  in- 
fluence, and  only  after  a  long  time  discovered  the  person- 
age from  whom  it  emanated. 

No  one  ever  praised  Lilian's  beauty,  though  she  pos- 
sessed all  the  elements  of  loveliness.  She  shared  Cyril's 
musical  voice,  but  lacked  its  more  powerful  and  penetrat- 


28  THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLANB. 

ing  tones.  Cyril  had  beautifully  shaped  hands,  but  Lil- 
ian's were  like  two  fair  spirits,  and  formed  the  only 
striking  part  of  her  personality;  they  were  the  first  thing 
the  stranger  observed  in  her,  and,  once  observed,  they 
were  never  for  a  moment  forgotten.  The  twins  had  shared 
everything  from  their  babyhood.  The  same  tutor  de- 
manded equal  tasks  of  brother  and  sister;  and  when 
Cambridge  separated  them,  Lilian  still  followed  the 
course  of  her  brother's  studies,  and  would  doubtless  have 
been  a  high  wrangler,  had  she  been  submitted  to  the 
same  tests  as  he.  The  peculiar  bond  between  them  was 
respected  and  acknowledged  even  by  Mark  Antony,  who 
was,  as  his  mistress  frequently  observed,  a  cat  of  consid- 
erable force  of  character.  Besides  Lilian,  Cyril  was  the 
only  human  being  Mark  Antony  ever  followed  or  fawned 
upon,  and  it  was  supposed  that  his  very  strong  affections 
were  entirely  bestowed  upon  the  twins. 

To  strangers  this  cat  was  haughtily  indifferent;  and,  if 
a  visitor  took  such  a  liberty  as  to  stroke  his  ebon  fur, 
would  rise  and  walk  away  with  offended  majesty.  To 
the  family  he  observed  a  distant  but  eminently  courteous 
demeanor;  to  the  servants  he  was  condescending;  to  the 
children  polite,  but  never  familiar,  their  respectful  caresses 
being  received  with  dignified  resignation,  and  never  suf- 
fered to  go  beyond  a  certain  point;  his  bearing  to  the  dogs 
was  that  of  a  despot.  He  was  a  great  warrior,  and  suf- 
fered no  other  cat  to  intrude  so  much  as  a  paw  on  the 
rectory  grounds :  hence  his  name. 

He  never  left  Lilian  while  she  was  in  the  house,  and 
at  certain  seasons  exacted  games  of  play  from  her,  scorn- 
ing to  play  with  anyone  else,  save  occasionally  when  he 
unbent  so  far  as  to  entangle  himself  wildly  in  Winnie's 
curls,  to  the  great  consternation  of  the  dogs.  But  Cyril 
might  do  anything  with  him,  and  could  never  do  wrong. 
In  this,  Mark  Anthony  differed  from  his  mistress,  since 
Cyril  was  the  only  person  with  whom  she  ever  quarrelled, 
the  two  having  had  many  a  pitched  battle  in  their  child- 
hood, though  they  always  stood  up  for  each  other  to  such 
an  extent  that  ,  if  one  was  punished  by  the  deprivation 
of  pudding,  the  other  was  permitted  to  go  on  half  rations 
with  the  delinquent,  and  to  give  one  an  orange  meant  to 
give  each  half  a  one. 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  29 

"Did  you  tell  him  that  the  Everards  were  here  this 
afternoon?''  Mrs.  Maitland  added,  the  personal  pronoun 
being  sufficient  indication  to  Lilian  of  her  brother, 
while  "her"  in  addressing  Cyril  was  known  to  mean  Lil- 
ian. 

"Were  they,  indeed?  and  I  away,  of  course,"  grumbled 
Cyril. 

"You  may  guess  Marion's  message,"  laughed  Lilian, 
in  a  low  aside,  at  which  Cyril  looked  pleased. 

"Well,  mother,  and  the  news?"  he  added. 

"Henry's  long  silence  is  satisfactorily  explained." 

"Satisfactorily?  Oh,  mother!  and  he  has  been  at  death's 
door!"  interrupted  Lilian. 

"111?  Everard?  I  know  there  must  be  something 
very  serious!"  ejaculated  Cyril.  "But  he  is  better?" 

"He  is  convalescent,  dear.  He  is  a  noble,  unselfish 
fellow,  as  I  always  knew  when  he  was  but  a  tiny  boy! 
He  would  not  let  his  friends  be  written  to  until  he  was 
completely  out  of  danger.  There  was  a  child  danger- 
ously ill  of  scarlet  fever  in  some  dreadful  court  in  Seven 
Dials.  He  was  too  ill  to  be  moved,  and  had  a  bad  drunken 
mother,  and  Henry  watched  him  for  several  nights,  reliev- 
ing guard  with  a  day  nurse.  By  the  time  the  child  was  out 
of  danger  Henry  was  raving — " 

"Then  why,"  interrupted  Cyril,  with  agitation,  "were 
we  not  told?" 

"He  had  foreseen  his  delirium,  aud  forbidden  any  com- 
munication till  he  died  or  recovered.  He  knew  full  well 
that  nothing  would  have  kept  Marion  from  him,  had  she 
known — " 

"He  was  right!"  broke  in  Cyril,  in  a  low,  fervid  tone. 
"Thank  heaven  that  he  thought  of  that!" 

"Henry  always  thinks  of  everything  that  may  effect 
the  welfare  of  his  friends,"  added  Lilian,  whose  face  wore 
a  look  of  quiet  enthusiasm,  and  whose  dark  gray  eyes 
were  shining  with  repressed  tears. 

"And  now?"  added  Cyril,  with  energy.  "They  will 
not  let  Marion  go  to  him  now  I  hope.  The  convales- 
cent stage  is  the  most  infectious." 

"They  will  not  meet  until  Henry  is  perfectfy  free  from 
infection.  You  may  trust  Henry  for  that,  Cyril." 

"He  has  been  very  ill,"  said  Lilian;  "they  feared  he 


30  THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

would  be  both  blind  and  deaf.  It  will  be  months  before 
he  can  recover,  though  the  infectious  stage  is  already 
nearly  past." 

"Poor  old  Everard!  that  will  be  a  terrible  trial  for  him 
with  his  ambition.  Time  is  so  precious  to  a  man  who  is 
beginning  his  career." 

"I  suspect  he  has  been  working  too  hard,"  said  Mrs. 
Maitland,  "and  the  enforced  rest  of  his  brain  may  bene- 
fit him  more  than  they  think.  Admiral  Everard  is  or- 
dered to  the  Mediterranean  with  the  squadron  in  a  few 
weeks'  time,  and,  a  winter  abroad  being  necessary  for 
Henry,  he  is  to  go  in  the  'Cressy'  to  Malta,  from  whence 
he  will  afterward  go  to  other  places — Egypt  and  the  Holy 
Land  among  them — and  Marion  is  to  be  his  companion." 

"Marion?  What!  Marion  spend  the  winter  abroad? 
Impossible !  She  shall  not  go." 

"You  are  not  married  yet,  Cyril,''  said  Lilian  laughing. 

"My  dear  boy,  why  should  Marion  not  go?"  asked  his 
mother  in  surprise.  "She  is  delighted  at  the  prospect.  It 
is,  perhaps,  the  only  chance  she  will  have  of  going'  abroad 
for  any  length  of  time.  Once  married,  a  girl  cannot  see 
much  of  the  world,  as  the  admiral  says,  and  a  country 
curate's  wife  is  especially  bound  to'  home  ". 

"And  do  you  suppose,  mother,  that  I  shall  always  be  a 
country  curate?"  asked  Cyril,  with  fire.  "Xo,  indeed. 
My  wife  will  have  as  many  opportunities  of  seeing  the 
world  as  anyone,  I  trust.  But  she  cannot,  she  must  not 
leave  me  all  this  winter.  I  simply  cannot  spare  her." 

"And  Henry — can  he  spare  her?"  asked  Lilian. 

"She  is  not  engaged  to  Henry.  Let  Henry  get  a  wife 
of  his  own." 

"My  dear  Cyril,  how  absurdly  you  talk!"  said  Mrs. 
Maitland.  "You  forget  that  Henry  is  an  invalid,  and  will 
need  his  sister's  care.  And  you  forget,  too,  that  Marion  is 
looking  forward  with  the  greatest  delight  to  this  unex- 
pected trip." 

"The  only  lady  on  board — on  board  a  man-of-war!" 

"And  awful  fun,  too,"  interposed  the  boy  on  the  rug. 
"I  only  wish  I  was  ill,  and  the  admiral  would"  take  me." 

"Well,  Lennie,  you  would  be  a  more  appropriate  pas- 
senger, certainly.  The  admiral  had  better  take  us  all,  I 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  j! 

think.  Snip,  the  terrier,  and  Snap,  the  pug,  with  Mark 
Antony  to  catch  the  mice  and  keep  us  in  order/' 

"But  Marion  is  not  going  in  the  'Cressy,'"  interposed 
Lilian.  "There  was  some  idea  of  her  going  at  first.  It 
seems,  however,  that  ladies  are  not  supposed  to  sail  with 
their  relations." 

"I  was  beginning  to  wonder  whether  the  admiral  pur- 
posed carrying  a  regular  Noah's  ark  about  with  him," 
grumbled  Cyril.  "And,  pray,  how  does  Marion  get  to 
Malta,  unless  in  the  'Cressy'?  By  balloon,  or  does  she 
charter  a  vessel  of  her  own?" 

"She  goes  with  the  Wilmots,  overland  by  Marseilles. 
Captain  Wilmot  is  joining  his  regiment  at  Malta.  They 
stop  at  Paris  and  other  places,  taking  it  leisurely,  and  that 
will  be  delightful  to  Marion,  who  has  travelled  so  little." 

"It  seems,  then,  after  all,  that  Henry  will  have  to  do 
without  Marion  till  she  reaches  Malta,"  said  Cyril. 

"But  he  will  have  his  father,  and,  of  course,  a  proper 
attendant  on  board.  At  Malta  he  will  be  thrown  on  his 
own  resources,  and  will  need  a  companion.  They  will 
take  care  of  each  other,"  Mrs.  Maitland  replied,  cheer- 
fully. 'They  think  of  coming  home  by  way  of  Sicily." 

"I  shall  go  to  Woodlands  to-morrow,  and  remonstrate 
with  the  admiral  if  he  is  there.  I  shall  take  the  pony- 
chaise,  unless  you  want  it,  Lilian." 

"Nonsense,  Cyril.  You  may  go  to  the  Woodlands  and 
take  the  pony,  but  you  will  not  remonstrate  with  the  ad- 
miral, or  make  yourself  in  any  way  obnoxious,"  said  Lil- 
ian. "When  you  come  to  reflect,  you  will  see  what  a 
charming  arrangement  it  is  for  everybody.  The  admiral 
is  the  more  delighted,  as  he  thinks  this  voyage  will  make 
Henry  so  desperately  in  love  with  the  navy  that  he  will 
become  a  naval  surgeon." 

"Hang  the  admiral!"  observed  Cyril,  in  his  softest, 
most  plaintive  voice,  while  a  droll  little  smile  curved  his 
lips.  "Why  doesn't  somebody  pity  me?  Isn't  it  hard 
lines,  Mark  Antony?" 

Mark  Antony  responded  by  a  tiny  mew.  He  was  sit- 
ting on  the  writing  table  between  his  twin  favorites,  the 
picture  of  feline  bliss;  his  tail  curled  round  his  daintv 
white  paws,  his  snowy  breast  tinted  by  the  ruddy  fire,  his 
eyes  lazily  closing  and  unclosing,  while  he  made  rhythmic 


32  THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

accompaniment  to  their  voices  in  deep,  long-drawn 
purrs,  and  expressed  a  benevolent  and  condescending  in- 
terest in  the  conversation  by  occasional  winks  and  move- 
ments in  the  direction  of  brother  or  sister,  as  each  spoke. 
He  had  inspected  and  thoroughly  sniffed  Cyril's  sermon 
with  an  air  of  approving  criticism. 

"Mark  Antony  was  most  condescending  to  Marion  this 
afternoon,"  said  Lilian;  "he  not  only  purred  affably  when 
she  stroked  him,  but  even  allowed  her  to  kiss  him  on  the 
breast." 

Whereupon  Cyril  bestowed  a  salute  on  the  same  spot, 
commending  the  cat's  sagacity  in  thus  recognizing  Mar- 
ion as  one  of  the  family.  Mark  Antony  drew  himself  up 
with  gratified  pride,  and  returned  his  friend's  caress  by 
lifting  his  velvet  paw,  placing  his  head  on  one  side  with  an 
arch,  roguish  expression  in  his  sparkling  eyes  and  bristled 
white  whiskers,  and  chucking  Cyril  under  the  chin  with 
the  daintiest  grace,  to  the  envy  and  delight  of  the  children, 
who  worshipped  this  household  divinity  at  a  distance ;  the 
jealous  disgusts  of  the  dogs,  who  were  asleep  with  one 
eye  open,  after  the  manner  of  their  tribe,  and  growled 
faintly;  and  the  admiration  of  the  whole  family,  who 
knew  that  this  delicate  caress  was  never  accorded  save  to 
the  twins. 

"No  one  seems  to  have  thought  of  me  in  this  matter," 
observed  Cyril,  stroking  the  delighted  animal.  "I  shall 
certainly  stand  up  for  my  rights.  This  notion  of  sacrific- 
ing Marion,  and  sending  her  half  the  world  over  in  charge 
of  an  invalid  brother,  is  too  detestable.  Her  sisters 
should  interfere;  they  stand  in  the  place  of  a  mother  to 
her." 

"Married  sisters  have  little  influence  on  home  affairs, 
fortunately  for  Marion's  freedom  in  the  choice  of  a  hus- 
band," Mrs.  Maitland  said,  laughing. 

"Well,  it  grows  late,"  said  Cyril,  rising.  "By  the  way, 
I  did  your  errands  at  Lee's.  The  eggs  and  the  pupil  are 
to  arrive  to-morrow  morning." 

"I  am  so  glad  you  remembered,"  replied  Lilian;  "I 
have  the  greatest  desire  to  gain  some  influence  over  Alma 
Lee.  Do  you  know,  Cyril,  she  is  a  girl  of  no  common 
character.  No  one  in  the  least  suspects  what  that  girl  is 
capable  of." 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND 


33 


"What,  Lill,  have  you  unearthed  another  genius?" 
asked  Cyril,  carelessly. 

"Oh,  no;  no  genius.  But  the  next  time  you  see  her, 
observe  the  way  in  which  her  eye  flashes,  and  the  mobility 
of  her  features.  Poor  Alma!  she  is  so  liable  to  fall  into 
temptation,  with  her  beauty  and  ignorance,  and  passion- 
ate, undisciplined  nature.  There  are  fine  elements  in  her 
deep  feeling,  strong  imagination,  and  capability  of  self-sac- 
rifice. How  she  tended  that  poor  little  step-sister  of  hers! 
Lucy  was  fearfully  afflicted.  Her  own  mother  shrank 
from  her  at  times ;  but  Alma,  never.  Yet  she  is  very  way- 
ward, and  so  spoiled.  Her  nature  is  powerful  for  evil  and 
good.  Nothing  but  strong  principle  can  keep  such  a  na- 
ture straight." 

Cyril  listened,  looking  thoughtfully  toward  the  fire,  with 
his  hand  shading  his  eyes  from  its  light. 

"My  sister  is  a  profound  student  of  human  nature, 
mother,"  he  observed,  lightly.  "She  is  right  in  saying 
that  Miss  Alma  has  a  will  of  her  own.  Let  us  hope  you 
will  succeed  in  putting  a  curb  on  this  unbridled  nature, 
Lilian.  You  are  quite  right  in  your  analysis  of  it.  But 
I  am  not  sure  that  a  Bible  class  is  the  panacea  you 
imagine.  To  move  Alma  Lee,  I  think  you  must  appeal  to 
her  affections." 

"She  is  frightfully  vain,  poor  girl!"  interposed  Mrs. 
Maitland.  "If  you  could  induce  her  to  dress  more 
quietly,  Lilian." 

"I  am  not  so  much  afraid  of  her  vanity,  mother.  As 
Cyril  says,  her  affections  must  be  got  at,  and  I  want  to 
make  my  Bible  class  a  means  to  that  end." 

"Just  listen  to  the  parish  priest!"  laughed  Cyril;  "she 
talks  like  a  book.  She  is  worth  ten  curates  to  my  father. 
The  time  I  have  wasted,  as  usual ;  it  is  past  seven !  Good- 
night, Lennie.  Have  you  earned  the  half  crown  yet?  No? 
Lazy  fellow.  You  will  never  be  able  to  own  a  menagerie, 
as  you  wish,  unless  you  work  harder.  You  may  still  get 
the  half-crown  if  you  bring  me  a  fable  of  La  Fontaine's, 
in  decent  Latin,  remember.  Winnie  has  fully  earned  hers, 
and  here  it  is,  brand  new.  Good-night,  mother.  Father 
will  be  home  at  eight,  he  bid  me  tell  you.  Good-night, 
Lilian."  And,  having  been  duly  taken  leave  of  by  the 
dogs,  Cyril  left  the  drawing  room,  accompanied  to  the 


34 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND 


door  by  Lilian  and  Mark  Antony,  the  later  flourishing  his 
tail  aloft  with  due  ceremony,  and  remaining  seated  on  the 
step  at  Lilian's  feet,  watching  till  the  young  man's  form 
was  swallowed  up  in  the  wintry  gloom. 

"Cyril  appears  anxious  to  be  married,"  Mrs  Maitland 
observed,  on  Lilian's  return  to  the  drawing  room.  "It 
is  a  very  strong  attachment,  and  well  placed,  fortunately 
for  the  dear  boy.  His  anxiety  about  Marion  actually 
made  him  forget  Henry's  peril,  and  the  heroism  which 
brought  it  upon  him.  Love  is  stronger  than  friendship." 

"Cyril  is  very  impulsive,"  replied  Lilian,  "and,  like  all 
impulsive  people,  is  in  a  desperate  hurry  about  everything. 
An  early  marriage  is  the  thing  to  give  balance  to  such  a 
temperament." 

"Dear  child,"  remonstrated  her  mother,  "I  do  not 
think  he  needs  balance.  I  may  be  a  foolish  old  woman," 
she  added,  smiling,  "but  I  can  see  no  fault  in  Cyril. 
Neither  can  your  father.  I  wish  he  had  wider  scope  for 
his  fine  talents.  To  cramp  a  young  fellow  of  his  splendid 
powers  and  attainments  in  that  narrow  country  parish 
seems  such  a  deplorable  waste  of  good  material.  I  see, 
too,  that  the  bondage  chafes  him." 

Lilian  made  no  reply,  but  looked  thoughtfully  at  the 
fire,  soothing  some  inward  perturbation  by  stroking  and 
restroking  Mark  Antony,  who  sat  purring  with  an  expres- 
sion of  imbecile  rapture  on  her  knee. 

Cyril  meanwhile  made  his  way  through  the  foggy  dark- 
ness of  the  country  roads  to  his  rooms  in  the  tiny  village 
where  lay  his  cure,  vexed,  and  cogitating  upon  every  pos- 
sible means  of  keeping  Marion  in  England. 

His  dinner  was  ready — a  simple  chop,  but  cooked  and 
served  in  the  daintiest  perfection,  and  accompanied  by  a 
bottle  of  claret  of  a  delicate  vintage.  Some  late  flowers 
and  a  dish  of  autumn  fruit  garnished  his  table,  all  the 
appointments  of  which  were  elegant  and  refined.  Noth- 
ing in  the  simple  little  lattice-windowed  room  couTd  of- 
fend the  most  fastidious  taste,  though  it  was  rather 
bare,  and  its  easiest  chair  would  have  been  full  of  pen- 
ance to  some  people's  limbs.  Two  proof  line-engrav- 
ings, after  Raphael,  were  its  sole  adornments,  unless  we 
include  a  great  many  books,  most  of  which  were  well 
bound,  and  a  harmonium.  His  solitary  meal  ended, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  JIAITLAND.  35 

Cyril's  landlady  brought  him  some  coffee,  made  as  Eng- 
lish coffee  rarely  is,  and  served  in  a  lovely  cup  of  Sevres, 
the  gift  of  Marion  Everard,  and  acquainted  him  with  the 
fact  that  an  old  woman  had  sent  three  times  that  day,  re- 
questing him  to  come  and  read  to  her,  as  she  was  taken 
worse. 

"I'll  go  directly/'  replied  Cyril.  "Poor  old  soul!  I'm 
so  sorry  I  was  out  when  she  sent;"  and  he  started  from 
his  seat  to  get  his  hat.  Then  it  struck  him  that  he  had 
better  drink  the  coffee  while  it  was  hot,  and  he  sat  down 
again,  and  fell  into  a  reverie,  experiencing  the  delicious 
physicial  languor  which  comes  after  much  air  and  exer- 
cise and  the  satisfaction  of  a  temperate  appetite,  and 
which  is  so  favorable  to  a  certain  kind  of  mental  occupa- 
tion. He  looked  wistfully  at  a  volume  of  St.  Augustine, 
which  lay  ready  to  his  hand,  and  then  at  his  watch.  "It 
is  too  late  for  Martha  Hale  to-night,"  he  reflected;  "and 
after  all,  what  good  can  I  do  her?  Her  life  has  been  a 
combination  of  a  martyr's  and  a  saint's;  she  has  the  Bible 
at  her  ringers'  ends,  and  caught  me  tripping  in  a  quota- 
tion twice  the  other  day.  Her  spiritual  knowledge  is  such 
as  I  can  only  dimly  guess  at.  I  can  tell  her  nothing  that 
she  does  not  know  five  times  as  well  as  I.  Her  daughter 
reads  to  her  by  the  hour.  She  has  no  sins  to  confess,  no 
doubts  to  calm.  And  it  would  be  a  sin  to  disturb  her  at 
this  time  of  night."  And  he  finished  the  coffee,  and  was 
soon  lost  in  St.  Augustine's  "City  of  God,"  which  he 
closed  at  last  at  about  the  time  when  Martha  Hale's  soul 
flitted  from  its  worn  and  suffering  tenement.  Then  he 
slept  as  youth  sleeps,  Marion's  sweet  face  flitting  through 
his  dreams,  and  her  voice  making  melody  to  an  accom- 
paniment of  sweetly  clashing  peals  of  the  bell-music  from 
Long's  wagon  team. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Rather  more  than  a  year  after  Alma  Lee's  evening  ride 
m  the  wagon,  a  railway  carriage  containing  two  travellers 
was  speeding  southward  through  the  wintry  air,  with  din 


36  THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN   MAITLAN\f 

and  rattle  and  smoke,  in  the  wake  of  the  red-eyed  en- 
gine, which  panted,  groaned,  and  throbbed  as  with  the 
agony  of  some  vexed  demon. 

The  travellers  were  men  in  the  heyday  of  youth,  and 
their  comfortable  rugs,  and  the  array  of  books  and  papers 
with  which  they  were  surrounded  in  the  well-padded  car- 
riage, marked  them  as  among  those  fortunate  ones  of 
earth  who  are  absolved  from  the  labor  of  carefully  con- 
sidering sixpences  and  shillings  before  converting  them 
into  things  of  convenience  or  pleasure.  An  odor  as  of 
a  recently  evanished  cigar  of  fine  flavor  further  empha- 
sized their  emancipation  from  the  slavery  of  petty  econ- 
omies, though  a  practiced  observer  would  never  for  a  mo- 
ment have  classed  them  in  the  ranks  of  those  gilded  youth 
who  are  exempted  from  the  blessed  curse  of  labor  and  at 
liberty  to  squander  the  rich  prime  of  their  strength  on 
pleasures  and  follies  as  they  will.  No;  they  were  evidently 
two  young  men  of  the  cultured  middle-class  bred  in  com- 
fort if  not  luxury,  but  with  their  own  standing  yet  to  make 
— a  truly  happy  position  for  a  youth  of  average  thews  and 
sinews. 

They  sat  in  opposite  corners,  with  their  legs  stretched 
out  beneath  their  warm  rugs,  one  looking  backward  at  the 
swiftly  receding  perspective  of  trees  and  fields,  villages 
and  farmsteads,  flashing  and  fading  on  the  sight;  the  other 
facing  forward  to  the  yet  unseen,  but  seeing  it  not,  since 
he  was  fast  asleep.  Fast  asleep,  unconscious  and  peaceful 
as  any  babe  on  its  mother's  breast,  he  was  speeding  on 
without  fear  to  a  fate  which  in  his  wildest  dreams  he  could 
never  have  pictured,  and  which  could  it  have  been 
shadowed  forth  ever  so  dimly  to  him,  he  would  have  dis- 
missed with  laughing  scorn  as  utterly  improbable — nay, 
impossible.  Yet  the  train  rushed  on  with  pant  and  puff 
and  clatter,  bearing  him  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  hidden 
terror  with  every  quiet  breath  he  drew  in  his  secure  slum- 
bers, while  pleasant  fancies  of  the  present  and  warm  hopes 
of  the  future  wove  themselves  into  fantastic  images  in  his 
light  dreams.  His  was  a.  well-built,  manly  form,  and  his 
sleeping  face,  with  all  its  placid  calm,  was  full  of  latent  en- 
ergy and  bright  intellect;  a  strong,  serene  face,  with  firm 
lips  and  chin,  the  face  of  a  man  who  could  do  and  endure 
much;  a  face  expressive  of  healthy  vigor  of  both  mind  and 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MA.ITLAND.  37 

body,  though  it  bore  traces  of  fatigue,  which  the  soft 
touches  of  sleep  were  every  moment  erasing. 

His  wakeful  companion  was  a  clergyman ;  a  man  whose 
mobile  and  finely  cut  features,  and  eyes  full  of  intense  blue 
light,  were  expressive  of  something  akin  to  genius ;  a  man 
whose  delicately  organized  nature  could  be  touched,  the 
observer  would  imagine,  only  to  the  finest  issues. 

A  world  of  thought  and  care  sat  on  the  young  priest's 
brow,  and  the  look  which  he  bent  on  the  fast-receding 
fields  was  so  profoundly  sad,  that  it  would  seem  as  if  hap- 
piness could  never  again  smile  on  him.  None  of  the  lay- 
man's calm  strength  and  wholesome  serenity  were  his; 
such  power  as  his  face  expressed  would  come  in  lightning 
flashes  of  brief  but  keen  intensity.  All  nerve,  fire,  imag- 
ination, and  feeling,  was  this  young  spirit  apparently; 
capable  of  descending  to  the  lowest  depths  of  suffering  or 
rising  to  the  very  airiest  summits  of  enthusiasm.  It  was 
an  eminently  beautiful  and  spiritual  young  face,  and  one 
which  never  failed  to  awaken  interest,  if  not  love.  He 
looked  very  worn  and  fatigued;  but  no  merciful  wing  of 
sleep  came  to  fan  the  trouble  from  his  brow,  while  his 
companion  slept  so  serenely  and  dreamed  so  pleasantly. 

In  one  hand  he  held  a  little  book  with  red  edges;  but, 
instead  of  consulting  its  pages,  his  eyes  were  bent  fixedly 
on  the  flying  wintry  landscape,  which,  nevertheless,  they 
saw  not,  their  gaze  of  intense  abstraction  being  turned  in- 
ward upon  some  unspeakable  sorrow.  His  face  was  in 
the  shadow,  while  some  rays  of  wintry  sunlight  fell  upon 
the  sleeper's  face,  touched  the  brown  moustache  with 
tints  of  gold,  and  finally  dazzled  the  closed  eyes  to  wake- 
fulness.  They  were  very  pleasant  eyes  when  opened — 
honest  hazel  eyes,  looking  directly  and  kindly  upon  the 
world,  and  suggesting  the  sunshine  of  wholesome  mirth 
in  their  depths;  shrewd  eyes,  for  they  had  seen  many  vari- 
eties of  human  being  in  the  course  of  six  and  twenty 
years,  and  were  not  easily  deceived. 

"Upon  my  word,"  observed  the  owner  of  the  eyes,  "I 
think  I  must  have  forgotten  myself  for  a  moment,  Cyril." 

At  the  first  sound  of  his  voice  all  the  sadness  vanished 
from  the  young  priest's  face;  the  mournfully  brooding 
eyes  left  the  landscape,  and  flashed  a  gay  brilliance  upon 
the  face  in  the  sunshine;  the  finely  moulded  lips  lost  their 


-3  8         THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAX  X  AIT  LAND. 

th coping  curve  in  a  smile;  the  dejected  attitude  became 
one  of  alert  repose;  the  whole  man  was  changed. 

"You  may  have  forgotten  yourself,  old  fellow,  but  it 
was  impossible  for  anyone  else  to  forget  you  with  that 
dulcet  harmony  of  yours  resounding  through  the  brain," 
he  replied. 

"Come,  now,  that's  a  libel;  I  never  snore,'1  returned 
the  other,  with  a  hearty  yawn  that  brought  the  tears  into 
his  eyes;  "and  if  I  did,  you  might  forgive  me,  since  you 
were  not  preaching." 

"There  are  some  sermons  of  mine  just  over  your  head, 
Everard ;  who  knows  but  some  lulling  influence  may  have 
emanated  from  them?'' 

"  'He  jests  at  scars  that  never  felt  a  wound.'  You 
scoundrel,  you  know  very  well  that  the  sleep  of  the  just 
is  murdered  the  moment  you  begin  thumping  the  pulpit- 
cushion,"  said  Everard,  with  a  banter  which  veiled  an  hon- 
est enthusiasm  for  his  friend's  gifts. 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  say  something  neat  with  regard 
to  the  elegance  with  which  you  take  off  people's  legs  and 
tie  up  their  arteries.  But,  you  see,  my  ignorance  is  so 
total—" 

"Exactly.  Genius  in  our  profession  is  known  only  to 
the  initiated,  while  in  yours  it  is  impossible  to  hide  its 
light  under  a  bushel.  Lucky  fellows,  you  parsons.  Not 
the  minutest  spark  of  worth  in  you  escapes  observation." 

"You  have  hit  on  the  weak  point  in  our  profession, 
Henry,"  said  Cyril,  dropping  his  air  of  banter.  "Seri- 
ously, it  is  a  very  awful  thing  to  be  placed  as  we  are  in 
the  full  light  of  public  observation,  all  our  weaknesses, 
failings  and  errors  heightened  by  its  glare,  and  doing — 
oh,  the  smallest  of  them! — such  worlds  and  worlds  of 
harm." 

"Stuff,  Maitland!  That  is  where  you  parsons  err.  You 
think  too  much  of  your  example  and  influence.  You 
don't  suppose,  man,  that  we  think  you  superior  to  human 
weaknesses?  Not  a  bit  of  it;  we  should  loathe  you  if  we 
did.  For  goodness  sake,  Cyril,  don't  take  up  with  these 
superfine  priestly  notions.  By  the  way,  why  didn't  you 
go  to  sleep?  You  look  as  if  you  wanted  it  badly  enough. 
Have  you  got  some  infernal  machine  secreted  under  your 
waistcoat  to  wake  you  with  a  timely  dig  in  caee  you  sue- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAXD.  39 

cumb  to  nature's  weakness,  according  to  the  rule  of  St. 
What's-his-name  ?" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  returned  the  other,  with  a  pained 
look,  ''you  mean  no  harm,  but  you  handle  certain  sub- 
jects with  a  levity — " 

"Come,  now,  Cyril,  we  are  not  treading  on  holy  ground. 
Your  conscience  and  feelings  are  in  a  state  of  hyper- 
aesthesia;  you  have  been  working  too  hard.  I  didn't 
mean  that  parsons  were  not  expected  to  practice  what  they 
preach  a  little  more  precisely  than  other  men,  or  that  any 
grave  lapse  on  their  part  is  not  worse  in  them  than  in 
others.  But  I  object  to  this  morbid  self-consciousness 
and  conscience-searching.  Surely  a  clergyman  who  is 
honest  in  his  faith  ought  to  be  able  to  lead  a  Christian  life 
with  sufficient  ease  to  prevent  him  from  torturing  himself 
about  the  effect  of  his  peccadilloes,  which  are  all  taken 
for  granted  on  his  flock." 

" There  are  no  peccadilloes  for  us,"  returned  Cyril,  with 
a  deep  sigh.  "But  now,  Henry,  let  me  speak  out  my 
anxiety  about  you  as  a  friend  merely,  not  as  a  priest. 
Many  things  you  have  said  lately  have  grieved  me 
deeply — ' 

"Oh,  I  know!  Because  I  don't  believe  in  the  devil,  I 
am  in  a  parlous  state.  You  priests  have  a  great  tender- 
ness for  that  absurd  old  devil  of  yours'.  Beg  his  pardon; 
I  will  speak  more  respectfully  of  him  in  future.  Drive  on." 

"Your  profession,"  pursued  Maitland,  with  a  look  of 
shocked  forbearance,  "is  a  noble  one;  nay,  in  some  re- 
spects it  is  more  noble  than  the  priesthood  itself,  though 
lacking  the  special  stamp  of  sanctity  that  it  bears.  It  is 
more  noble  because  it  involves  so  much  more  self-sacri- 
fice. But  it  is  one  beset  with  special  and  awful  dangers. 
Your  minds  are  so  constantly  set  upon  the  material,  that 
it  is  no  wonder  if  you  are  tempted  to  lose  sight  of  the 
spiritual.'' 

"That  I  admit,"  returned  Everard. 

"You  risk  your  souls  that  you  may  heal  our  bodies, 
and  the  Latin  proverb,  'Where  there  are  three  doctors 
there  are  two  atheists,'  is  daily  verified." 

"Granted.  But  I  am  not  one  of  the  atheists,  happily 
for  me.v 

"Not  yet;  but  I  tremble  for  ycu,  Henry.     That  light 


4° 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 


tone  grows  upon  you.  And  you  reason  every  day  more 
and  more  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  man  of  science. 
You  learn  more  and  more  to  distrust  everything  that  can 
not  be  proved  by  the  evidence  of  the  senses — " 

"Of  reason." 

"It  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  Will  you  promise  to 
pray  against  this,  Henry?"  asked  Cyril,  with  intense  sup- 
plication. 

"My  friend,"  returned  the  other  with  a  slight  shake  of 
his  body,  like  that  a  dog  gives  in  issuing  from  the  water, 
"you  accused  me  just  now  of  treating  sacred  things  with 
levity.  Now,  your  words  jar  upon  my  sense  of  rever- 
ence, which  is  strangely  different  in  a  priest  and  a  layman. 
You  are  accustomed,  you  see,  to  handle  religious  topics 
freely.  I  am  not.  And  as  I  have  no  words  to  express 
them  in,  I  would  rather  leave  them  alone." 

Cyril  heaved  a  profound  sigh,  and  was  silent  for  some 
seconds,  while  Everard  kindled  a  second  cigar. 

"You  think  I  have  taken  a  liberty,  Harry?"  he  asked, 
after  awhile.  * 

"Not  in  the  least.  Feeling  as  you  do  you  would  have 
been  wrong  to  be  silent.  You  have  but  done  your  duty, 
old  friend.  Cheer  up.  Oh,  do  keep  a  fellow  company  in 
a  cigar!  It  is  holiday-time." 

Cyril's  sensitive  face  brightened.  It  was  evident  that 
he  was  extremely  anxious  about  the  effect  his  words 
would  have  on  his  friend's  estimation  of  him.  But  he 
resolutely  declined  the  cigar — a  self-denial  which  fretted 
his  friend  as  being  quite  a  new  feature  in  his  character. 

"You  are  very  much  changed,  Maitland,  during  the 
past  year,"  he  said,  looking  keenly  at  him. 

"I  am,  indeed,"  he  replied,  with  a  heavy  sigh;  and  he 
turned  the  subject  by  pointing  out  the  towers  of  a  gray 
cathedral  in  the  distance.  "It  is  always  a  pleasant 
friend  to  meet  on  one's  way  home,"  he  said;  and  the  two 
joined  in  admiring  the  massive  pile,  till  their  passage 
through  a  chalk  cutting  hid  it  from  their  sight  for  a  time, 
and  then  the  train  slackened,  the  shouts  of  porters  were 
heard,  the  cathedral  appeared  once  more,  and  they  glided 
under  the  roofs  of  the  smoky  station,  amid  a  confused  din 
of  bell-ringing,  door-banging,  hurrying  steps  and  wheels, 
and  all  the  turmoil  attending  a  brief  pause  on  a  main  line. 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  41 

"Belminster  always  had  a  great  fascination  for  me," 
observed  the  doctor,  looking  across  the  sea  of  smoke- 
wreathed  roofs  to  the  vast  towers  of  the  cathedral. 
"Surely  that  serenely  majestic  person  in  gaiters  is  the 
bishop  himself.  The  expression  'Church  dignitary,'  is  so 
fit.  Whoever  heard  of  a  medical  dignitary,  or  a  legal 
dignitary?  Good  gracious  me,  Maitland,  what  an  awful 
thing  it  must  be  to  be  a  bishop's  son!  Fancy  asking  that 
urbane  and  dignified  cleric  to  pass  the  wine!  I  should 
faint  if  called  upon  to  feel  a  spiritual  lordship's  pulse." 

Cyril  smiled  as  the  unconscious  bishop  made  a  stately 
and  solitary  progress  past  their  carriage,  recognizing  the 
young  clergyman  as  he  passed. 

"He  is  very  kind  and  fatherly,"  he  observed,  as  the 
train  moved  on.  "I  wish  I  were  still  in  his  diocese.  Yes, 
I  have  a  great  regard  for  Belminster.  I  was  ordained 
there." 

"May  you  walk  in  the  gaiters  of  that  good  old  gentle- 
man, Cyril,  some  score  of  years  hence,  and  make  the 
splendid  old  arches  of  the  minster  ring  with  your  elo- 
quence !  I  shall  settle  near  you — as  parish  doctor,  mind — 
though  I  invent  Heaven  knows  how  many  diseases,  as  I 
hope  to  do,  and  Europe  rings  with  my  discoveries.  No 
fashionable  physician  business  for  me." 

"A  bishop,"  observed  the  young  priest,  thoughtfully, 
"has  an  immense  scope  for  action." 

"Here  is  a  man,"  said  Everard,  appealing  to  the  win- 
dows and  sides  of  the  carriage,  "who  is  too  honest  to 
say,  'Nolo  episcopari.'  Let  us  make  much  of  this  man! 
Let  us — hem ! — marry  him  to  our  sister." 

"This  day  two  months,"  added  Maitland,  "the  wed- 
ding will  take  place." 

"By  the  way,  the  young  minx  suggested  that  I  should 
read  Tennyson's  'St.  Simeon  Stylites'  at  the  next  Penny 
Readings.  The  suggestion  is,  I  suppose,  intended  for  a 
profound  joke.  Rather  a  weak  poem.  Lunacy  requires 
the  master-mind  of  a  Shakespeare  to  handle  it  without 
repulsiveness." 

"I  am  not  sure  that  it  was  lunacy,"  said  Cyril. 

"Not  lunacy  to  stand  on  a  pillar  for  thirty  years?  My 
good  fellow,  when  I  consider  the  doings  of  the  Stylites 


42 


THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAX   MA1TLAXD 


and  the  recluses  of  the  Thebaid,  I  sometimes  wonder  if 
there  was  any  sanity  in  the  world  in  those  days." 

"There  was,  at  least,  method  in  their  madness,  Ever- 
ard.  Consider  the  power  their  austerities  gained  them 
over  the  minds  of  ordinary  men." 

"Of  course,  many  an  authentic  maniac  has  been  hon- 
ored with  almost  divine  honors  in  certain  stages  of  soci- 
ety. The  lust  of  power  is  a  curious  thing.  For  my  part, 
I  would  rather  be  a  nonentity  than  stand  on  a  pillar  to 
gain  influence." 

"But  consider  what  they  wanted  influence  for.  To 
bring  souls  to  God." 

"So  they  persuaded  themselves,  no  doubt.  Of  all 
things  I  loathe  asceticism.  Not  so  much  for  the  spiritual 
ambition  and  pride  that  attend  it,  as  because  it  is  in 
reality  only  the  other  side  of  profligacy,  or,  in  other 
words,  an  ascetic  is  a  rake  turned  monk." 

"Can  a  rake  do  better  than  turn  monk?" 

"In  my  judgment,  he  can.  He  can  repent,  turn  away 
from  his  wickedness,  and  lead  a  rational  human  life." 

"Nay.  He  has  made  himself  unworthy  of  those  com- 
mon human  enjoyments  in  which  innocent  men  may 
indulge.  Nothing  but  a  life  of  penance  can  atone — " 

"Nothing  can  atone,"  interrupted  Everard.  "I  am  a 
Protestant,  Cyril — a  rabid  Protestant,  as  you  observed  the 
other  day.  None  of  your  popish  penances  for  me.  What's 
the  matter?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  Cyril,  whose  features  quivered 
with  pain,  as  he  pressed  his  hand  to  his  side.  "At  least, 
only  a  'stitch'  I  am  subject  to.  Myself,  I  long  for  more 
austerity  in  the  Christian  life  of  to-day.  A  few  eremites 
of  the  Thebaid  type  on  Salisbury  Plain — " 

"I  tell  you  what,  Cyril:  you  must  learn  to  moderate 
your  transports  in  that  parish  of  yours,  or  you  will  soon 
be  in  a  hospital  or  a  lunatic  asylum.  Subject  to  a  stitch 
at  four  and  twenty!  It  won't  do.  The  devil  fly  away 
with  your  eremites!  There  are  legends  of  some  of  those 
same  Thebaid  lunatics,  who,  after  passing  years  and  years 
in  every  species  of  austerity,  suddenly  burst  their  unnat- 
ural trammels  in  one  unguarded  moment,  fled  to  the  city, 
and  plunged  into  a  very  vortex  of  iniquity.  Extremes 
meet,  and  Nature  is  a  stern  avenger." 


THE  SILEXCE  OF  DE.1.V  MAITLA.ND.  43 

The  spasm  again  flitted  across  Cyril's  face,  unnoticed 
by  his  friend,  for  Cyril  turned  to  the  window  as  he  pressed 
his  side.  Beneath  his  clothes  he  wore  a  little  golden 
cross,  studded  with  tiny  spikes,  which,  on  pressure, 
pierced  the  flesh. 

"The  exception  rather  proves  the  rule,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing, as  he  turned  his  face  again  toward  his  friend.  "The 
ascetics  have  in  all  ages  of  the  world  been  the  salt  of  the 
earth.  A  mere  protest  against  sensuality  is  something. 
And  people  need  the  discipline  of  pain." 

"If  I  were  to  invent  a  purgatory,  Cyril,  it  would  be  one 
of  happiness.  Joy  is  the  true  educator  and  refiner,  not 
pain.  Nothing  exists,  or  can  exist,  without  joy,  which  is 
both  the  originator  and  sustainer  of  life  in  the  organic 
world,  and,  therefore,  by  analogy,  in  the  spiritual.  You 
and  I  are  here  to-day  as  the  result  of  long  ages  of  physi- 
cal and  moral  well-being  enjoyed  through  an  infinite 
chain  of  ancestors.  Without  continued  physical,  mental, 
and  moral  enjoyment  throughout  our  own  individual 
lives,  you  and  I  would  never  have  attained  to  our  present 
physical,  mental,  and  moral  stature — such  as  it  is.  Good 
heavens,  Cyril!  think  of  the  stunted,  stifled  natures  we 
have  been  seeing  daily  in  those  dens  of  East-End  vice  and 
misery,  and  contrast  them  with  the  men  who  were  our 
companions  at  Cambridge!'' 

"I  grant  a  certain  necessary  basis  of  physical  well-be- 
ing," rejoined  Cyril,  wearily;  "but  I  trust  the  day  will 
dawn  when  you  too  will  rejoice  in  the  discipline  of  sor- 
row. It  may  even  now  be  knocking  at  your  doors;  for 
you  are  too  happy,  Harry,  for  a  sinful  man — ' 

"I  am  most  perfectly  happy,  and  trust  to  remain  so, 
my  grewsome  prophet,"  said  Everard,  with  a  cheery 
laugh.  I  have  youth,  health,  a  clear  conscience,  a  pro- 
fession I  love,  and  good  prospects  in  it,  and — and— 
Here  a  curious  smile,  and  something  distantly  resembling 
a  blush,  irradiated  the  doctor's  face.  "In  short,  I  should  be 
an  ungrateful  miscreant  if  I  were  not  perfectly  happy 
Though,  to  be  sure,"  he  added,  "I  am  not  going  to  be 
married  to  one  of  the  dearest  girls  on  earth  this  day  two 
months.  Why,  what  is  this?  Oldport  already,  as  I  am  a 
living  man!"  He  was  on  his  feet  in  a  moment,  eagerly 
scanning  the  faces  on  the  platform,  while  Cyril  collected 


44  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

the  various  impedimenta.  "She  is  not  there,"  he  mut- 
tered, in  a  tone  of  disappointment,  as  he  appropriated  his 
own  share  off  of  the  plunder. 

"Oh,  no!"  returned  Cyril,  in  a  composed  manner; 
"she  had  no  intention  of  coming.  Lilian  would  come  alone; 
the  phaeton  only  holds  three,  and  Marion,  of  course, 
would  not  drive  in  alone." 

Everard  smiled  at  the  different  significance  of  the  word 
"she"  in  his  own  and  friend's  vocabulary:  to  the  latter  it 
meant  Marion ;  to  himself,  Lilian. 

"Perhaps  she  is  here,  after  all,"  he  continued,  "waiting 
outside  with  the  pony." 

"Go  and  see,"  said  Cyril;  "time  and  patience,  mean- 
while, may  result  in  the  production  of  a  porter,  which 
event  I  will  abide." 

Everard  eagerly  strode  along  the  little  platform, 
thronged  with  laborers  and  market  women  bearing  bas- 
kets of  the  singularly  aggressive  nature  affected  by  mar- 
ket women — baskets  constructed  apparently  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  damaging  passengers'  ribs,  and  finding 
out  their  tenderest  spots.  He  threaded  his  way  eagerly 
through  these  perils,  occasionally  removing  a  stolid  and 
motionless  human  obstacle  by  the  simple  process  of  plac- 
ing his  hands  on  its  shoulders  and  wheeling  it  aside,  till 
he  issued  on  the  top  of  the  hill  outside  the  station.  The 
river  flowed  peacefully  by  its  wharves  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill;  the  little  town  rose  on  its  banks,  and  clustered  lov- 
ingly around  the  base  of  the  tall  white  tower,  whose 
weathercock  burned  golden  in  the  clear  wintry  sky;  and 
the  gray  downs  laid  their  arms  protectingly  around  this, 
their  child. 

But  Everard  did  not  look  at  this  scene ;  he  scanned  only 
the  lines  of  flys  and  omnibuses,  each  manned  by  a  gesticu- 
lating, whip-waving  driver,  in  search  of  the  well-known 
pony  from  Malbourne,  with  the  face  he  loved  behind  it. 
But  there  was  no  pony  and  no  Lilian,  and  he  returned 
disconsolate  to  Cyril,  who,  in  the  meantime,  had  succeed- 
ed in  gaining  the  attention  of  one  of  the  two  distracted 
porters. 

"Perhaps,''  observed  Cyril,  tranquilly,  "I  forgot  to 
write.  Who  knows?  Well,  we  must  have  a  fly." 

"By  the  sword  of  my  grandfather,"  cried  Everard,  "I 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAX  MAITLAND. 


45 


will  not  go  in  one  of  those  confounded  flys.  Let  us 
walk.  The  weather  is  made  for  it.  A  country  walk  will 
drive  ascetic  megrims  out  of  your  brain." 

"And  the  portmanteaus?" 

"Left  till  called  for.  We  can  carry  our  own  bags. 
Now,  look  here,"  he  added,  as  Cyril  demurred.  "I  am 
not  going  to  mortify  my  flesh  by  riding  in  a  cushioned  fly 
behind  two  horses,  with  my  luggage  carried  for  me.  I 
shall  walk  across  country,  bag  on  shoulder;  and  if  that  is 
too  comfortable  for  your  reverence,  you  can  get  some 
dried  peas  at  the  first  grocer's  we  come  to." 

Cyril  laughed  and  consented.  Everard  gave  the  man 
silver  to  buy  peas  to  put  in  his  boots,  to  his  great  mystifi- 
cation, and  the  two  young  men  set  off  down  the  hill,  deaf- 
ened by  the  importunities  of  flymen,  and  crossed  the 
bridge  over  the  dark,  sluggish  river  and  admired  the  ar- 
tistic pyramids  of  casks  on  the  brewers'  wharves,  and  re- 
joiced at  hearing  the  familiar  Hampshire  drawl  in  the 
streets;  for  it  was  market  day,  and  many  a  rustic  lounged, 
stolid,  with  open  mouth,  before  the  gay  shop  windows 
decked  for  Christmas. 

Presently  a  more  musical  sound  made  their  ears  tingle 
with  pleasant  home  thoughts — the  sweet,  melodious  con- 
fusion of  wagon  bells,  clashing  rhythmically  along  the 
street,  and  they  soon  recognized  Long's  fine  team  of 
horses,  each  proudly  shaking  the  music  from  his  crest, 
and  responding  to  the  gutteral  commands  of  William 
Grove,  who  strode  along  with  an  expressionless  face  and 
a  sprig  of  mistletoe  in  his  cap,  cracking  his  whip,  and 
accompanied  by  his  satellite  Jem,  who  bore  holly  in  his 
hat.  A  faint  gleam,  distantly  resembling  a  smile,  spread 
over  William's  face  at  the  greeting  of  the  two  young  men, 
and  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  issue  the  strange  monosyl- 
lable which  brought  his  team  to  a  standstill  at  their  re- 
quest, while  the  more  youthful  and  impassioned  Jem  ex- 
panded into  a  distinct  grin,  and  replied  that  his  health 
was  "middling." 

"Well,  and  how  are  all  the  Malbourne  folk?  and  are 
any  of  our  people  in  Oldport  to-day,  Grove?'' 

"I  ain't  zeed  none  as  I  knows  on,"  he  replied,  after  a 
profound  consideration. 

"Any  of  the  Malbourne  folk  'gone  up  the  steps'  to- 


ty  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

day?''  asked  Everard,  looking  in  the  direction  of  the 
town  hall,  which  wras  closed,  with  its  clock  glittering  in 
the  sunshine. 

"Ah!  'tain't  often  we  goes  up  steps/'  returned  Wil- 
liam, who  knew  well  that  the  steps  referred  to  were  those 
conducting  the  malefactor  before  the  magistrates  at  the 
town  hall,  and  which  were  numerous  and  unpleasant  to 
climb  with  a  burdened  conscience.  *'WTe  never  knows, 
though,"  he  added,  in  an  unusual  burst  of  moralizing, 
"who  med  be  the  next." 

"I  hope  it  won't  be  you,  William,"  returned  Everard; 
"if  it  is,  it  won't  be  for  robbing  those  fine  horses  of  their 
corn.  Why,  they  look  as  fat  as  filberts,"  he  added,  pat- 
ting the  leader. 

"It  wun't  be  you  neither,  doctor,"  growled  William 
affectionately;  "for  all  they  zes  as  how  you  done  for  Jem 
Martin,  a-cutting  of  him  open  and  a-zewing  of  him  up  so 
many  times,  and  pretty  nigh  pisened  Mam  Lee." 

"Do  they  say  that?"  laughed  Everard.  "And  this  is 
fame,  as  Mr.  Crummies  observed,  Cyril.  Well,  look  here, 
William!  you  take  these  bags  of  ours,  if  you  think  the 
wagon  can  stand  it,  and  fetch  our  portmanteaus  from  the 
station.  Jem  can  run  up  the  hill  for  them." 

"Our  luggage,  William,"  explained  Cyril,"if  it  won't 
put  you  out  of  your  way.  We  are  going  home  on  foot. 
and  didn't  know  how  oh  earth  to  get  our  things  out  till 
we  met  you." 

After  deep  cogitation,  and  some  assistance  from  the 
quicker  intelligence  of  Jem,  the  nature  of  the  service  he 
was  required  to  render  at  last  dawned  upon  William 
Grove's  intellect,  which  \vas  apparently  situated  at  a  long 
distance  from  the  material  world,  and  he  consented  with 
gruff  heartiness,  and,  waking  all  the  five  little  peals  of 
music  with  one  motion  of  his  whip,  started  off  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  station. 

"A  happy  New  Year  to  you!"  the  two  friends  cried  to- 
gether at  parting. 

"And  beware  of  going  up  the  steps,"  added  Everard. 
"Upon  my  word,  Cyril,  I  should  like  to  explore  the  re- 
cesses of  that  fellow's  moral  consciousness.  He  is  appar- 
ently up  to  the  level  of  the  most  advanced  thinkers  of  the 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAlTLANlj.  47 

day.  He  evidently  looks  upon  crime  as  a  misfortune  de- 
pendent upon  quite  intrinsic  circumstances.'' 

"They  all  do,"  returned  Cyril.  "It  is  the  part  of 
Christianity  to  convince  the  world  of  sin." 

"Who  shall  say  how  far  a  man's  will  consents  to  his 
acts?"  added  Everard,  musingly.  "I  hope  some  day  to 
be  able  to  give  myself  to  the  study  of  mental  disease,  and 
more  accurately  trace  the  connection  between  that  and 
crime." 

"Let  us  forget  both  this  one  day,"  said  Cyril,  whose 
spirits  had  undergone  a  wonderful  change  in  the  last  half 
hour,  and  were  now  gay  even  to  boyishness. 

Everard  fell  readily  into  his  humor,  and,  chatting  and 
laughing,  the  friends  soon  passed  the  streets  of  the  little 
town  and  its  minature  suburbs,  and  gained  the  pretty  vil- 
lage of  Chalkburne,  the  Norman  tower  of  which  showed 
in  the  sunlight  fresh  and  unworn  by  its  eight  centuries  of 
storm,  and  greeted  the  travellers  with  the  music  of  its 
chiming  hour  as  they  walked  through  the  linden  girdled 
churchyard,  rejoicing  in  their  youth  and  the  live  W7intrv 
air. 

Cyril  had  the  gift  of  conversation,  which  Everard 
somewhat  lacked,  and  the  talk  was  brilliant  and  sparkled 
with  his  ready  wit  and  quick  repartee,  in  which  the  doc- 
tor was  continually  worsted,  greatly  to  his  own  good-hu- 
mored content.  His  love  for  Cyril  and  his  admiration 
for  his  gifts  were  boundless.  The  two  friends  had  passed 
all  their  school-time  together,  Everard  riding  daily  to 
Malbourne  to  study  with  Cyril's  tutor,  Mr.  Maitland's 
curate;  and  in  those  young  days  the  hero-worship  began, 
the  elder  boy,  whose  mental  powers  were  slower,  if  more 
solid,  admiring,  protecting,  and  helping  the  bright-eyed, 
clever  child  who  shared  his  studies  and  so  often  dis- 
tanced him.  They  met  again  at  Cambridge,  where  the 
senior  was  only  one  year  ahead  of  his  two-years  junior, 
and  there  Everard  found  fresh  cause  to  admire  his  bril- 
liant and  successful  friend,  vho  gathered  friends  and  ad- 
mirers innumerable  about  nim,  and  won  laurels,  both 
literary  and  social. 

And  now  family  ties  promised  to  unite  them  more 
closely,  and  Everard  was  glad — far  more  glad  than  Mait- 
land,  whose  affection  for  his  friend,  though  warm,  had 


ty  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 

not  the  slightest  element  of  hero-worship,  but  was,  on 
the  contrary,  flavored  with  a  good  spice  of  condescension. 
With  all  his  imagination  and  quick  sympathy,  Cyril  did 
not  see  that  Henry  possessed  those  solid  and  patient 
mental  gifts  which  readily  master  the  facts  of  physical 
science,  and,  above  all,  had  the  peculiar  faculty  which  may 
be  called  scientific  imagination — that  he  was,  in  short, 
one  of  those  chosen  few  who  make  new  epochs  in  the  his- 
tory of  scientific  research.  Cyril  looked  upon  his  enthusi- 
asm for  his  profession  as  praiseworthy,  but  inexplicable. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  Henry  crawled  upon  the  earth,  while 
he  soared  in  the  vast  heaven's  blue.  Such  was  the  bond 
which  united  the  two  hard-working  young  men  who 
walked  along  the  chalky  road  that  bracing  afternoon  at 
the  end  of  December,  to  pass  a  week's  well-earned  holiday 
under  the  friendly  roof  of  Malbourne  Rectory. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  afternoon  sun  was  shining  peacefully  upon  the 
thatched  roofs  of  Malbourne,  on  the  dark  gray  spire  of 
its  tree-girdled  church,  and  on  the  south-west  front  of 
Malbourne  Rectory.  At  one  of  the  sun-lighted  windows 
sat  Lilian  Maitland,  busily  writing,  her  face  directed  to 
the  prospect  without,  which  she  occasionally  looked  upon 
in  her  thoughtful  pauses. 

The  lawn. sloped  quickly  from  the  windows  to  a  road 
which  was  concealed  by  trees,  and  beyond  which  rose  the 
park -like  grounds  of  Northover  House  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  appear  but  a  continuation  of  the  rectory  grounds. 
Somewhere  down  in  the  hollow  by  the  road  there  danced 
and  murmured  the  bright  little  stream  which  gave  its 
name  to  Malbourne,  and  which  Lilian  knew  was  spark- 
ling gayly  now  in  the  sunshine,  as  it  washed  the  drooping 
hart's-tongue  waving  from  its  mossy  bank.  Beyond  the 
cluster  of  village  roofs  on  the  right  spread  a  range  of  flat, 
windy  fields  to  the  unseen  sea.  Behind  the  Rectory, 
and  on  the  left  of  Lilian's  window,  rose  the  bleak  chalk 
downs,  strong  barriers  against  the  wild  salt  winds  which 


THE  SILENCE  OP  DEAH  MAlTLAflD 


49 


swept  over  those  regions,  summer  and  winter,  from  the 
sea. 

Mark  Antony,  the  cat,  sat  demurely  on  the  table  by  the 
blotting-book,  thoughtfully  scanning  the  sunny  land- 
scape, and  pretending  not  to  see  the  pert  little  robin  on 
the  lawn,  while  he  occasionally  appealed  to  Lilian's  sym- 
pathies by  rubbing  his  velvet  head  against  her  cheek,  or 
giving  her  a  dainty  little  bite,  which  he  had  copied  from 
his  human  friends,  under  the  impression  that  it  was  a  kiss. 
In  a  low  chair,  between  the  table  and  the  fire,  sat  a  very 
pretty  slender  girl,  toying  with  a  piece  of  fancy  work,  but 
really  intent  upon  trying  to  win  a  glance  or  responsive 
purr  from  Mark  Antony,  who  regarded  all  her  efforts  with 
haughty  indifference,  and  continued  to  evolve  his  philos- 
ophy of  the  visible  universe  unmoved. 

"He  is  so  tantalizing!"  she  cried,  throwing  away  her 
work  with  a  pretty  pettish  gesture.  "If  he  would  only 
once  show  some  deference  to  me,  I  should  not  care. 
Puss,  puss,  I  say!  Come  to  me  at  once,  sir!" 

"He  thoroughly  understands  the  secret  of  his  own 
supremacy,  Marion,"  replied  Lilian,  coming  to  the  end  of 
her  writing,  and  softly  stroking  the  animal's  snow-white 
breast.  "He  knows  as  well  as  you  do  that  you  would 
think  nothing  of  his  caresses  if  he  lavished  them 
unasked." 

"Selfish,  hateful  animal!" 

"He  is  not  selfish,"  replied  Lilian;  "he  is  a  profound 
student  of  human  nature.  He  has  discovered  that  the 
deepest  joy  a  human  being  can  taste  is  to  love  disinter- 
estedly. He  therefore  offers  mankind  this  enjoyment  by 
permitting  them  to  adore  him  at  a  distance.  Dogs  afford 
a  far  lower  enjoyment — that  of  being  loved." 

"Dogs  are  right,"  said  Marion,  her  brown  eyes  soften- 
ing in  a  wistful  gaze;  "the  happiest  thing  is  to  be  loved. 
I  should  die  if  people  didn't  love  me.  I  almost  hated 
Cyril  when  I  thought,  in  that  dreadful  time  last  spring, 
that  he  didn't  care  for  me." 

"It  is  delicious  to  be  loved,"  rejoined  Lilian,  "but  to 
love  is  best.  How  happy  Henry  is  in  his  affection  for 
you!  You  are  the  dearest  thing  in  the  world  to  him, 
and  yet  I  think  you  care  little  comparatively  for  him;  you 


50  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

even  prefer  your  brother  Leslie,  who  is  always  too  busy 
with  sport  and  gayeties  to  write  to  you." 

"Well,  it  is  different,"  replied  Marion.  "Henry  is  so 
full  of  learning  that  he  seems  older  than  Leslie,  who  is 
the  darling  of  his  regiment  and  so  full  of  life.  And 
then,  Henry  is  not  engaged.  I  am  sure  he  has  never 
cared  for  any  girl,  and  will  die  an  old  bachelor.  Of 
course,  he  cares  much  more  for  me  than  I  care  for  him. 
And  be  is  so  devoted  to  Cyril." 

"I  think,"  said  Lilian,  pressing  her  cheek  against  her 
pet's  glossy  fur,  "that  neither  of  you  know  the  real 
worth  of  Henry." 

"Oh,  he  is  the  best  old  fellow  in  the  world,  but  not 
clever  and  handsome  like  Cyril,  and  without  the  dash  of 
Leslie.  By  the  way,  I  suppose  these  bad  boys  will  be  here 
to-night." 

"No  doubt  they  will  turn  up  some  time,  unless  some- 
thing serious  detains  them,  in  which  case  they  will  tele- 
graph. Cyril  has  promised  to  preach  to-morrow.  Are 
you  quite  sure,  Marion,  that  he  did  not  mention  his 
train?  He  always  likes  me  to  meet  him  at  Oldport." 

"He  said  he  would  write  later  to  name  the  train.  I 
suppose  he  forgot." 

"He  does  forget  now,  Marion,  as  he  never  used  to. 
He  is  killing  himself  in  that  dreadful  parish.  Oh,  I 
shall.be  so  thankful  when  you  are  married!  There  will 
be  a  perfect  holiday,  to  begin  with,  and  then  you  will 
keep  him  within  reasonable  bounds." 

Marion  laughed.  "He  will  have  to  take  care  of  me  as 
well  as  the  parish,"  she  said.  "But  what  is  this?" 

"This"  proved  to  be  merely  Eliza,  the  parlor-maid, 
who  entered  with  her  usual  unmoved  countenance. 

"It  is  only  Stevens,  Miss  Lilian,"  she  said.  "And 
could  you  please  step  down  to  the  forge  at  once?'' 

"The  forge!"  exclaimed  Marion,  with  wide  eyes  of 
astonishment." 

"What  is  the  matter  there,  Eliza?"  asked  Lilian,  tran- 
quilly. 

"Only  Hotspur,  Mr.  Ingram's  horse,  miss.  They've 
been  trying  this  hour  to  get  him  shod.  Straun  says  he 
wouldn't  touch  him  for  a  hundred  pounds." 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  jx 

"But  what  has  the  parish  clerk  to  do  with  shoeing 
horses?"  exclaimed  the  bewildered  Marion. 

"Or  the  parson's  daughter?"  added  Lilian,  laughing. 
"\Yhy,  nothing  is  done  in  the  village  without  Stevens, 
Marion.  He  and  Grandfer  together  are  the  oracles  of 
Malbourne.  No,  you  shall  not  come  with  me ;  you  would 
be  frightened  to  death.  Go  and  see  if  mother  wants  any- 
thing. She  will  be  waking  now." 

"Oh,  I  say,  Lilian!"  cried  a  little  voice,  as  Lennie 
burst  in,  rosy  and  excited,  "do  come  along.  Such 
larks!  Hotspur  has  kicked  a  cart  to  atoms,  and  now  he 
is  letting  fly  in  all  directions,  and  is  killing  Judkins,  and 
there's  Stevens  stamping  at  the  back  door,  and  the  whole 
village  with  its  hair  on  end." 

"Hyperbole  is  Lennie's  favorite  figure,"  commented 
Lilian,  going  out  into  the  hall,  and  taking  her  hat  and 
jacket.  "Run  on,  Lennie,  and  say  I  am  just  coming. 
Matter?  Oh,  my  dearest  Marion,  nothing!  Only  that 
Ingram  Swaynestone  spoils  his  horses'  tempers,  and  then 
is  surprised  that  his  servants  can't  manage  them." 

In  another  minute  Lilian  had  passed  with  quick,  light 
step  and  erect  carriage  down  the  drive,  and  along  the  vil- 
lage high-road,  bordered  with  its  little  gardens,  in  which 
one  or  two  belated  autumn  flowers  still  made  a  brave 
show  against  the  wintry  rigor.  She  went  quickly,  but 
without  hurry,  and  found  time  on  the  way  to  give  some 
directions  about  the  church  to  the  clerk,  a  lean,  rugged 
figure,  stooping  slightly  beneath  the  fardel  of  some  fifty 
winters,  and  crowned  with  a  shock  of  grizzled  red  hair, 
who  walked  and  talked  excitedly  at  her  side. 

Soon  she  saw  the  forge,  from  the  black  heart  of  which 
streamed  a  ruddy  glow,  looking  lurid  in  contrast  with  the 
sunshine,  and  round  which  was  grouped  a  dense  little 
crowd  of  women  and  children,  with  a  few  men.  Straun 
the  smith,  a  burly,  grimy,  bare-armed  figure  in  a 
leathern  apron,  stood  in  an  atitude  of  defiant  despair, 
one  strong  hand  grasping  his  great  hammer,  which  he 
had  flung  on  the  anvil,  and  calling  silently  on  Heaven  to 
witness  that  he  was  ready  to  shoe  Christian  horses,  how- 
ever rampant,  but  not  demons,  hippogriffs,  or  any  such 
uncanny  monsters.  Near  him,  looking  rather  pale,  but 


52  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 

resolute,  as  became  one  superior  to  the  weaker  emotions, 
an  old,  bent,  withered  man,  with  shrewd  gray  eyes  and 
pursed-up  mouth,  stood  leaning  forward  on  a  stout  oaken 
stick,  and  shook  his  head  as  one  who  despaired  of  finding 
virtue  in  these  degenerate  days  in  either  man  or  beast. 

"And  I  zays,  as  I  zed  before,"  he  repeated  emphasizing 
his  words  with  the  stick,  which  he  dug  into  the  ground 
with  all  the  force  of  his  two  withered  hands,  "zend  for 
Miss  Lilian — zend  for  she!"  , 

"Lard  love  'ee,  Granfer,"  observed  a  stout  fellow  in  a 
smock-frock,  who  stood  inside  the  forge  in  attendance  on 
a  couple  of  massive,  glossy-coated  cart-horses,  who  were 
cozily  munching  some  hay  dropped  before  them,  and 
contemplating  the  proceeding  lazily  with  their  great  soft 
winking  eyes,  "where's  the  use  of  a  gal?" — a  proposition 
received  by  Granfer  and  the  assembled  village  with  silent 
scorn. 

The  centre  of  the  excited  little  crowd,  which  occasion- 
ally burst  asunder  and  flew  outward  with  a  wild  mingling 
of  women's  and  children's  shrieks — for  the  men  scurried 
off  with  a  silent  celerity  that  was  all  the  more  effectual — 
was  a  beautiful  chestnut  horse,  not  standing,  according 
to  the  comfortable  and  decent  wont  of  horses,  on  four 
firmly  planted  feet,  but  outraging  people's  belief  in  the 
stability  of  natural  laws  by  rearing  himself  wildly  and 
insecurely  on  his  two  hind  legs,  and  dangling  from  his 
mouth  in  mid-air  a  miserable  white-faced  biped  in  sleeved 
waistcoat  and  gaiters,  whose  cap  had  fallen  off,  and  whose 
damp  hair  streamed  as  wildly  as  Hotspur's  own  frenetic 
mane  and  quivering  tail.  Tired  of  this  folly,  with  his 
ears  laid  back,  his  nostrils  wide  and  red,  and  his  eyes 
showing  nothing  but  the  whites,  Hotspur  would  suddenly 
drop  his  victim  to  his  native  earth,  and  plunging  for- 
ward on  his  other  end,  as  if  intent  on  turning  a  somer- 
set, would  throw  his  hind  hoofs  up  toward  the  sky  in  a 
manner  most  alarming  to  those  who  enjoyed  a  near  view 
of  the  proceedings;  and  then,  wearying  of  this,  he  would 
dance  round  on  all  four  legs  at  once  in  a  manner  utterly 
bewildering  to  contemplate. 

"Why,  Hotspur,"  cried  Lilian,  in  her  clear,  mellow 
voice,  as  she  stepped  quickly  through  the  crowd  just  as 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


53 


Hotspur  dropped  the  unfortunate  groom  to  the  ground, 
and  prepared  to  turn  himself  the  other  way  up,  "what  is 
this,  old  fellow?''  and  she  caught  the  rein  from  the 
groom's  hand,  pushing  the  latter  gently  away,  and  laid 
her  slender,  strong  white  hand  firmly  upon  the  quivering 
neck  of  the  maddened,  plunging  horse.  "Fy,  Hotspur, 
fy!" 

No  one  had  observed  Lilian's  approach,  and  when  she 
Appeared,  as  if  dropped  from  the  skies  in  the  groom's 
place,  a  sudden  quiet  pervaded  every  human  face  and 
limb,  the  crowd  fell  back,  and  all  looked  on,  save  the 
sceptic  with  the  cart-horses,  with  an  air  of  tranquil 
expectancy;  while  Lilian,  without  a  trace  of  anxiety  or 
agitation,  talked  in  caressing,  reproving  tones  to  the  ill- 
conducted  steed,  whose  limbs  had  quivered  into  some 
approach  to  quiet  at  the  first  touch  of  the  slender,  spirit- 
like  hand  on  his  neck. 

But  even  Lilian's  magic  touch  could  not  expel  the 
demon  of  passion  at  once  from  the  maddened  creature. 
He  still  reared  and  plunged  ?nd  danced,  in  a  manner 
that  led  the  spectators  to  give  him  plenty  of  room  for  his 
evolutions;  but  he  became  gradually  quieter,  until  he 
stood  as  Providence  intended  horses  to  stand,  on  all  four 
feet  at  once,  and  only  betrayed  the  internal  workings  of 
his  outraged  feelings  by  the  quivering  of  his  limbs  and 
body,  the  workings  of  his  ears  and  eyes,  and  the  redness 
of  his  wide  nostrils,  while  Lilian's  musical  voice  never 
ceased  its  low  monologue  of  soothing  and  reproach,  and 
her  hand  never  left  stroking  and  patting  his  shining 
neck  and  shoulders.  At  Hotspur's  first  backward  rear, 
indeed,  her  hand  left  him  perforce,  and  she  only  avoided 
being  hoisted  in  mid-air  like  the  luckless  groom  by  giv- 
ing him  a  long  rein  and  stepping  quickly  back  out  of  the 
way  of  his  formidable  forefeet. 

This  was  an  ugly  moment,  and  a  woman  in  the  crowd 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  dismay  and  turned  pale  at  the 
sight  of  the  girl  beneath  the  rearing  horse,  though  no 
one  else  betrayed  the  least  emotion,  not  even  the  sceptic 
in  the  smock-frock,  whose  mouth  was  too  widely  opened 
in  astonishment  to  leave  room  for  his  features  to  express 
any  other  feeling;  but  Hotspur,  finding  that  Lilian  did 


54 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


not  balk  him  of  his  dance  on  his  hind  legs,  soon  desisted 
from  that  uncomfortable  performance,  and  yielded,  as 
his  betters  frequently  did,  gradually  to  the  soothing 
charm  of  her  voice  and  touch,  until  he  became,  figura- 
tively speaking,  clothed  and  in  his  right  mind.  She 
found  fault  with  Hotspurs  bit,  and  pointed  out  the 
undue  tightness  of  his  girths  to  Judkins,  whose  cheeks 
had  now  resumed  their  native  ruddy  hue ;  and  when  these 
defects  were  remedied,  she  led  the  horse  a  little  way 
along  the  road  and  back  again,  and  fed  him  with  sugar 
and  other  dainties,  till  Hotspur's  heart  waxed  so  glad 
within  him  that  he  consented  to  stand  like  a  lamb,  while 
Straun,  not  without  some  misgiving  in  his  bluff  face, 
and  a  muttered  reference  to  his  wife  and  seven  children, 
fitted  his  new  shoes  to  his  restive  feet  with  what  speed 
and  dexterity  he  could  muster. 

"And  I  zed,"  observed  Granfer,  again  striking  his 
oaken  staff  emphatically  on  the  ground,  and  looking 
round  on  the  assembled  village  as  if  for  applause,  "zed 
I,  'Zend  for  Miss  Lilian —  zend  for  she !' " 

The  crowd,  in  the  mean  time,  had  been  augmented  by 
the  arrival  of  two  other  spectators,  who  were  unobserved 
in  the  absorbing  interest  evoked  by  Hotspur  and  his 
conqueror.  One  was  a  tall,  finely  built  man,  somewhat 
past  middle  life,  on  a  good,  well-bred  bay  horse,  which 
he  rode  and  handled  with  perfect  horsemanship.  He 
stopped,  in  the  first  instance,  to  avoid  riding  over  the 
village  population;  and  in  the  second,  to  witness  the 
curious  little  drama  enacted  in  the  wintry  sunshine.  He 
was  soon  joined  by  a  gray-haired  clergyman,  of  vener- 
able aspect  and  refined  features,  who  looked  on  with 
quiet  interest. 

"Upon  my  word,  Maitland,"  said  the  equestrian,  ad- 
dressing the  latter,"  this  is  a  new  revelation  of  your  daugh- 
ter's powers.  I  was  already  aware  that  she  soothed  the 
troubles  and  quieted  the  consciences  of  the  whole  village, 
but  I  did  not  know  that  she  undertook  the  blacksmith's 
labors  as  well." 

"My  daughter,"  replied  Mr.  Maitland.  tranquilly, 
"has  received  a  very  singular  gift  from  the  Almighty. 
She  can  subdue  any  animal,  tame  or  wild,  by  some  mys- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAX 


55 


terious  virtue  of  touch,  voice  or  glance — perhaps  of  all 
three.  Not  a  very  lofty  gift,  perhaps,  Sir  Lionel,  but  one 
which  is  often  very  useful  in  a  homely  way." 

"But  surely,  Maitland,  you  cannot  approve  of  Lilian's 
rendering  such  dangerous  services  as  these.  Are  you  not 
afraid  for  her?" 

"No;  I  have  every  confidence  in  her  powers.  And  I 
do  not  like  to  make  her  nervous  by  suggesting  danger. 
Perhaps  one  secret  of  her  influence  is  her  absolute  fear- 
lessness. Watch  the  expression  of  her  eye.  No;  I  like 
my  child  to  render  whatever  service  she  is  capable  of  to 
her  fellow-creatures.  Parents  often  err,  I  think,  by 
interfering  unnecessarily  with  their  children's  actions. 
Well,  Lilian,  and  what  was  the  matter?"  he  asked,  as 
the  crowd,  perceiving  them,  fell  back  respectfully,  with 
courtesies  and  cap-touchings.  Judkins,  receiving  his 
four-footed  charge  from  Lilian's  hand,  prepared  to  mount 
and  ride  away,  not  without  warning  from  Lilian,  and 
strict  injunctions  to  eschew  whipping  and  other  irrita- 
tions, and  to  quiet  Hotspur's  nerves  by  a  good  canter  on 
the  turf. 

"Only  a  horse  with  a  spoiled  temper,  father/'  she 
replied.  "How  do  you  do,  Sir  Lionel?  Tell  Mr. 
Swaynestone  that  I  mean  to  scold  him  roundly  about 
Hotspur.  He  is  far  too  hot  himself  to  be  able  to  indulge 
in  chestnut  horses.  And,  indeed,  I  am  not  sure  that  he 
ought  to  have  any  horse  at  all." 

"All  this,"  said  Sir  Lionel,  who  had  dismounted  and 
taken  off  his  hat  with  graceful,  old-fashioned  courtesy, 
"I  will  faithfully  do,  though  surely  one  word  from  your- 
self would  have  more  effect  than  volumes  I  could  say. 
Do  your  spells  work  only  on  the  lower  creation,  Lilian?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  returned  Lilian,  turning  homeward  in 
the  reddening  sunbeams,  accompanied  by  the  two  gentle- 
men and  the  horse,  which  latter  she  patted  to  his  great 
satisfaction.  "My  spells  consist  chiefly  of  sympathy  and 
affection,  and  these  are  perfect  with  innocent  animals  and 
children,  but  only  partial  with  sinful  men." 

"Ben  Lee  will  never  forgive  you  for  inducing  me  to 
drive  without  bearing-reins,"  said  Sir  Lionel.  "I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  the  sight,  Maitland.  Lee  ignomin- 


56  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND,, 

iously  dethroned,  your  daughter  and  myself  on  the  box, 
Lilian  handling  the  ribbons,  and  driving  me  up  and  down 
before  the  house  without  bearing-reins.  Lee  never  drives 
out  now  without  preparing  for  his  last  moment,  poor 
fellow.  I  hope  you  will  not  help  poachers,  Lilian.  I 
hear  you  can  surround  yourself  with  fifty  pheasants  at 
any  moment  in  our  woods." 

"If  I  were  to  hurt  anything  I  think  my  power  would 
be  gone ;  and  even  if  I  did  not  love  a  thing  I  should  have 
no  power,  for  I  have  no  influence  on  reptiles." 

"And  does  Cyril,  who  is  so  like  you,  share  your 
power?" 

"As  a  child  he  did,"  interposed  Mr.  Maitland.  "You 
remember  the  bull  that  killed  Lee's  father,  Sir  Lionel? 
Imagine  my  feelings  on  seeing  the  twins,  then  about  six 
years  old,  stroking  him,  and  trying  to  reach  by  jumping 
up  to  his  terrific  horns!  Still,  Cyril  has  an  unusual  in- 
fluence over  animals,  though  it  becomes  fainter.  He  has 
more  power  with  human  beings  than  his  sister." 

"Yet  Lilian  stopped  that  fellow  who  was  beating  his 
wife  to  death." 

"And  the  whole  village  looking  on  and  not  lifting  a 
finger — the  cowards!"  Lilian  flashed  out.  "He  fell 
down  in  sheer  fright  when  I  rushed  at  him.  Come  in, 
Sir  Lionel,  and  have  some  tea,"  she  added,  as  they 
reached  the  gates. 

But  Sir  Lionel -refused  the  tea,  having  still  some  dis- 
tance to  ride  before  dark. 

"I  am  in  Lady  Swaynestone's  service  to-night,"  he 
,said,  "and  she  bid  me  ask  you  to  come  and  counsel  her 
about  some  distribution  of  coals  or  what  not,  when  you 
have  a  spare  moment.  I  wish  you  could  also  exercise  the 
demon  of  extravagance  from  that  boy  Ingram." 

"She  nearly  scolds  the  poor  fellow  to  death  as  it  is," 
said  Mr.  Maitland.  "We  are  expecting  Henry  Everard 
to-night." 

"So  I  hear.  A  promising  fellow,  Sir  Andrew  Smith- 
son  tells  me.  He  was  both  clever  and  kind  in  his  treat- 
ment of  Lee's  wife  last  spring.  As  a  lad,  I  thought  him 
rather  dull.  However,  we  all  pin  our  faith  on  Dn 
Everard  now  at  Swaynestone." 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  57 

And  bidding  them  farewell,  Sir  Lionel  sprang  like  any 
youth  to  his  saddle,  and  rode  away  at  a  canter,  looking 
like  a  very  prince,  as  his  tall  and  gracefully  erect  figure 
disappeared  among  the  trees  in  the  dusk. 

The  group  at  the  forge,  meantime,  rightly  judged  that 
so  much  heat,  toil,  and  anxiety  required  the  alleviation  of 
moisture,  and  Straun,  casting  his  hammer  aside,  pro- 
claimed his  intention  of  adjoining  for  solace  to  the  Sun, 
which  stood  at  the  corner  by  the  cross-roads,  a  few  paces 
further  down  the  road. 

"Come  on,  Stevens,"  he  said,  "and  toss  me  who'll  treat 
Granfer." 

The  guardian  of  the  cart-horses  thought  it  a  pity  not 
to  follow  so  good  an  example;  so  also  did  Hale,  the  wheel- 
wright, who  lived  at  the  opposite  corner;  and  Wax,  who 
chanced  to  be  the  school-master,  and  Baines,  the  tailor, 
whose  monotonous  indoor  occupation,  though  varied 
ivith  pig-jobbing  and  gardening,  required  frequent  solace 
of  this  nature.  Hale's  brother  Tom,  a  soldier  resting 
from  war's  alarms  in  his  native  village  in  a  very  undress 
uniform,  consisting  of  no  belt,  a  tunic  unbottoned  all  the 
way  down  and  displaying  a  large  expanse  of  striped  shirt, 
trousers  tucked  around  the  ankles,  a  short  pipe,  find  a 
muffin-cap  perilously  askew,  considered  it  a  breach  of 
manners  unbecoming  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman  to  per- 
mit these  worthy  men  to  drink  without  his  assistance,  and 
similar  feelings  animated  his  brother  Jim,  a  sailor,  bear- 
ing the  legend,  "H.  M.  S.  'Bellerophon,' "  on  his  cap. 
So  the  brave  fellows  accommodating  their  pace  to  that  of 
Granfer,  which  was  more  dignified  than  swift,  turned  in 
as  one  man  beneath  the  low  doorway  of  the  Sun,  and 
grouped  themselves  about  the  cozy,  sanded  bar,  where 
the  firelight  was  beginning  to  look  cheerily  ruddy  in  the 
fading  afternoon. 

"Ar.d  I  zaid,"  added  Granfer,  striking  the  sanded  floor 
dogmatically,  with  his  stick,  "'Zend  for  Miss  Lilian — 
send  fur  she." 

"Ay,  Granfer,"  growled  the  smith,  "it's  all  very  well 
for  Miss  Lilian.  She  ain't  got  a  wife  and  seven  children, 
*\nd  her  bread  to  git." 

"I  zes,  zes  I,"  interposed  the  sceptic   in   the   smock- 


58  THE  SILENCE  OF  DVA\   MAITLAND. 

frock,  who  had  taken  a  pull  at  his  tankard,  and  was 
removing  the  foam  from  his  lips  by  the  simple  application 
of  the  back  of  his  hand,  "  'Wher's  the  use  of  a  gal?'  I've 
a  zin  it,  and  I  believe  it.  I  shouldn't  a  believed  it  'f  I 
hadn't  a  zin  it." 

"You  never  believes  nothink,"  observed  Jim.  "Ah! 
if  you'd  a  sin  what  I've  sin  aboord  the  ''Bellyruffian,' — " 

"Or,  if  he'd  a  sin  they  there  snake-charmers  in  India, 
what  he  won't  believe  in,"  added  the  soldier. 

"Ah!"  broke  in  the  clerk,  "you  put  Miss  Lilian  aboord 
the  'Bellyruffian,'  or  take  her  out  to  Injy  and  let  her 
charm  snakes,  and  I'll  war'nt  she'll  do  it.  That  ar  buoy 
Dick,  whatever  she  done  to  he,  nobody  knows.  A  bad 
'un  he  wer,  wouldn't  do  nothing  he  hadn't  a  mind  to. 
You  med  bate  'un  till  you  couldn't  stand.  Wax  have 
broke  sticks  about  his  back,  and  covered  'un  with  weals, 
but  catch  he  gwine  to  school  if  he'd  a  mind  to  miche.  I 
zes  to  Miss  Lilian,  I  zes,  'I've  bate  that  ar  buoy  black 
and  blue,'  I  zes,  'and  I've  a  kep'  'un  without  vittles  this 
two  days,  and  he  wun't  do  nothun  he  an't  a  mind  to.' 
And  she  ups  and  zes,  'Stevens,'  she  zes,  'I  should  like  to 
bate  you/  sire  zes;  'I  should  like  to  bate  you  green  and 
yaller,'  she  zes.  'Lard  love  'ee,  Miss  Lilian,  whatever 
would  you  bate  I  for?'  I  zes,  zes  I.  'Because  you  are  a 
fool,  Stevens,'  she  zes,  'and  you  are  ruining  that  buoy, 
and  turning  him  into  an  animal,'  she  zes.  And  she  took 
Jun  up  rectory,  and  kep'  'un  there  a  day,  and  sent  'un 
home  as  good  as  gold.  And  she  made  me  promise  I 
wouldn't  bate  'un  no  more  for  two  weeks,  and  I 
ain't  bate  'un  zince,  and  he'll  do  what  he's  told  now  with- 
out the  stick.  'I  should  like  to  bate  you  green  and  yal- 
ler, Stevens,'  she  zes.  And  she'd  a  done  it,  she  would, 
green  and  yaller — ah!  that  she  would,  mates." 

"I  don't  deny,"  said  Baines  the  ta41or,  whose  profes- 
sioned  rendered  him  morbid,  revolutionary,  and  inclined 
to  distrust  the  utility  of  existing  institutions,  "but  what 
Miss  Lilian  may  have  her  uses." 

"Ah,  Baines,"  interrupted  the  soldier,  "you  ain't  such  a 
fool  as  you  looks,  after  all." 

Before  the  stupified  Baines,  who  was  acustomed  to 
have  his  remarks  received  with  reverence,  could  reply  to 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DE.iS  UA1TLAND.  59 

this  insult,  public  feeling  was  suddenly  outraged  by  the 
following  observation  from  the  smock-frocked  sceptic. 
the  want  of  wisdom  in  whom  was  accounted  for  by  his 
having  only  recently  come  to  Malbourne  from  a  village  at 
least  ten  miles  off  that  centre  of  intelligence. 

"But  what  shall  us  do  when  Miss  Lilian  gets  mar- 
ried?" 

"Married!"  shouted  the  clerk.  "And  who  ses  she's 
a-gwine  to  marry?'' 

"She  med  marry;  then  again  she  medn't,''  replied  this 
foolish  person,  unabashed  by  the  dark  glances  bent  upon 
him. 

"Miss  Lilian,"  observed  Granfer,  who  had  been  indul- 
gently listening  while  he  despatched  his  beer,  and  thus 
affording  weaker  wits  the  opportunity  of  exercising  them- 
selves during  his  forbearance,  "ain't  agwine  to  marry 
nobody;"  and,  thrusting  his  staff  forward  and  resting  his 
two  hands  upon  it,  Granfer  looked  around  the  assembly 
with  austere  menace  in  his  shrewd  gray  eyes. 

Nobody  dared  reply  to  this,  and  silence  prevailed, 
broken  only  by  the  sound  of  good  liquor  disappearing 
down  men's  throats,  and  a  weak,  half-audible  murmur 
from  the  smock-frock  about  girls  being  girls,  whether 
gentle  or  simple. 

"I  zes  to  my  missus,  vive  year  agone  last  Middlemas, 
zes  I,"  continued  Granfer,  who  chanced  to  be  the  grand- 
'sire  of  the  indignant  clerk,  "  'Miss  Lilian  ain't  one  o'  your 
marrying  zart;'"  and  again  Granfer  looked  round  the 
assembly  as  if  challenging  them  to  deny  the  undeniable, 
and  was  met  by  an  assenting  murmur  of  "Ah's" 

"Miss  Lilian,"  pursued  Granfer,  with  an  air  of  inspira- 
tion, "is  turned  vour-and-twenty.  Vour-and-twenty 
year  old  come  last  M-ay  is  they  twins.  Well  I  minds 
the  night  they  was  barned.  The  last  time  as  ever  I  druv 
a  'oss.  A  vrosty  night  'twas,  and  nipped  all  the  archards 
miles  round,  and  there  warn't  no  vruit  that  year.  Ah! 
Varmer  Long  he'd  lost  a  dree-and-dirty  yowes  lambing- 
time  that  year.  Well  I  minds  it.  I  druv  pony-chaise 
into  Oldport,  and  vetched  out  t'  doctor.  And  I  zes  to 
my  missus,  I  zes,  when  I  come  home,  'Master's  got 
twins!'  Ay,  that's  what  I  zed,  zure  enough.  And  my 


60  THE  S1LEXCE  OF  DEAX  MAITLAXD. 

missus  she  zes,  zes  she,  'Lard  love  'ee,  Granfer/  she  zes, 
'you  don't  zay  zo?'  she  zes;"  and  again  Granfer  paused 
and  looked  around  to  perceive  the  effects  of  his  elo- 
quence. 

"Ay/'  said  the  landlord,  feeling  that  courtesy  now 
obliged  him  to  entertain  the  intellects  as  well  as  the 
bodies  of  his  guests,  "twins  is  zummat  when  it  comes  to 
that.  Twins  is  bad  enough  for  poor  volk,  but  when  it 
comes  to  ladies  and  they,  Lard  'a  massey!" 

"Ah!"  murmured  Granfer,  shaking  his  head  with  pro- 
found wisdom,  and  at  the  same  time  regretfully  contem- 
plating the  vacuum  in  his  beer  pot,  "them  twins  done 
for  Mrs.  Maitland.  She  ain't  been  the  zame  'ooman 
zince,  never  zimmed  to  perk  up  agen  arter  that.  Vint 
children  they  was,  too,  as  ever  you'd  wish  to  zee,  and 
brought  up  on  Varmer  Long's  Alderney  cow,  kep'  special 
vor  'um,  as  I  used  to  vetch  the  milk  marnin'  and  evenin*. 
I  did,  zure  enough." 

Here  Tom,  the  soldier,  who,  in  virtue  of  his  red  coat, 
was  bound  to  be  susceptible  to  feminine  charms,  opined 
that  Miss  Lilian  was  still  "a  smartish  looking  gal;''  and 
Jim,  the  sailor,  added  that  he  didn't  see  why  she  shouldn't 
pick  up  some  smart  lad  yet,  for  his  heart  was  warm,  and 
he  could  not  bear  to  consign  an  unoffending  girl  to  the 
chills  of  single  blessedness.  There  was  Lieutenant  Ever 
ard,  of  the  "Bellerophon,"  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  rec- 
tory, for  example — as  smart  an  officer  as  Jim  had  eve/ 
seen,  he  added. 

"Ah,  goo  on  wi'  ye!"  cried  Granfer,  greatly  refreshed 
by  the  polite  replenishment  of  his  pot  at  Tom's  expense. 
"Miss  Lilian's  as  pretty  a  maid  as  Tom'll  zee  in  a  day';* 
march.  But  she  wun't  marry  nobody.  Vur  why?  sez  I. 
Cause  she  wun't  ha'e  the  common  zart,  and  the  upper 
crust  wun't  ha'e  she." 

"W'atever's  come  over  Judkins  now?"  asked  Hale,  the 
wheelwright,  musingly.  "He'd  had  a  drup  too  much  's 
afternoon,  and  he  was  a  latherin'  into  Hotspur  like  mad 
coming  down  shoot*  He  hadn't  ought  to  tre*t  a  hosn 
like  that." 

*A  short  steep  hill  in  the  highway. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  SfAITLAND.  6l 

"A  man  med  well  drink,"  said  the  tailor,  "afore  trust- 
ing hisself  to  a  animal  like  that  there.  Steady  as  Charlie 
Judkins  was,  poor  chap!  What  these  'ere  rich  men  got 
to  answer  for!" 

"I  never  zeen  a  'oss  rampageouser,"  replied  the  smith; 
"but  I  never  zeen  a  'oss  Miss  Lilian  couldn't  quiet,  or  a 
ass  either." 

"Your  missus  'ull  be  sending,  for  her  one  day,  then," 
said  Jim ;  and  the  whole  assembly  broke  into  a  loud  guf- 
faw, after  which  Granfer  very  impressively  related  the 
history  of  the  hunted  fox,  which  appeared  one  day  with 
his  paws  on  the  window-sill  of  Lilian's  sitting-room, 
followed  by  the  pack  in  full  cry,  and  the  whole  field  at  no 
great  distance.  He  told  how  Lilian  quickly  opened  the 
window,  Reynard  leaped  in,  and  she  as  quickly  shut  it; 
And  how  the  huntsman,  on  finding  the  hounds  at  check 
round  the  rectory  window,  looked  in,  and  was  greatly 
shocked  to  see  poor  Reynard's  pointed  nose  and  glitter- 
ing eyes  peering  out  from  among  the  skirts  of  a  young 
lady  sitting  quietly  at  work,  and  tranquilly  surveying  the 
baffled  hounds  baying  outside  . 

Lilian  refused  to  deliver  up  her  fugitive,  holding  par- 
Jey  with  the  master  of  the  hounds  through  the  closed 
and  latched  window,  until  the  latter  had  withdrawn  his 
pack ;  and  it  was  not  until  the  premises  had  been  cleared 
•a  good  half-hour  of  every  vestige  of  hound,  horse,  and 
man,  that  she  unbolted  door  or  window,  and  suffered  her 
weary,  panting  prisoner  to  depart,  wThich  he  did  with 
evident  regret  and  thankfulness  for  hospitality — a  hospi- 
tality poorly  requited  by  him,  since  he  managed  to 
snatch  a  chick  from  the  poultry-yard  in  effecting  his 
escape. 

But  no  one  seemed  to  think  there  was  anything  un- 
usual in  Lilian's  power  over  living  creatures;  it  was  sim- 
ply what  one  expected  of  Miss  Lilian,  just  as  one  ex- 
pected church  bells  to  ring  and  cocks  to  crow.  Nof  had 
any  one  thanked  her  for  assisting  so  effectively  at  the 
shoeing  of  Hotspur. 

Then  followed  a  long  history  of  animals  healed  by 
Lilian,  and  in  particular  of  a  dog  of  Ingram  Swayne- 
atone's  which  the  latter  was  going  to  shoot,  when  she 


62  THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAXD. 

begged  its  life,  and  nursed  it  into  health.  Also  of  the 
racers  Ingram  had  at  a  trainers,  and  the  money  he 
lost  by  them;  of  the  oaks  and  beeches  at  Swavnestone, 
which  had  to  expiate  these  losses;  and  of  the  young 
fellow's  probable  descent  to  beggary  through  the  paths  of 
pleasure. 

"He's  a  vine  young  veller,"  observed  Granfer,  at  the 
close  of  his  second  pot;  "  a  wild  'un  zurely.  His  vather 
was  a  wild  'un,  too;  'tis  the  blood  and  the  high  veeding. 
So  was  lus  grandfather.  I  mind  things  as  Sir  Lionel  did 
would  make  'ee  all  stare.  Men  is  just  the  zame  as  'osses 
— vee  'em  up,  and  they  vlings.  The  well-bred  'uns  is 
vive  times  skittisher  than  t'others.  Wuld  Sir  Lionel,  he 
was  the  wildest  of  all — druv  his  stags  into  Oldport  vour- 
in-hand,  he  did,  and  killed  dree  or  vour  volks  in  the 
streets.  Ah!  times  isn't  what  they  was,"  sighed  Granfer, 
regretfully  draining  his  pot. 

By  this  time  it  was  dark  niglit.  The  Sun  windows 
threw  a  warm  glow  over  the  road;  the  stars  sparkled 
keenly  above  the  thatched  roof  of  the  little  hostel;  and 
the  smell  of  wood-smoke,  mingled  with  the  appetizing 
odor  of  fried  pork,  red  herrings  and  onion  soup,  rising 
all  over  the  village,  warned  the  topers  that  the  hour  of 
supper  was  approaching  and  they  would  have  dispersed, 
however  unwillingly,  but  for  the  chimes  of  wagon-bells 
along  the  road,  which  beguiled  them  into  waiting  while 
William  Grove  deposited  his  parcels  at  the  Sun,  took  the 
one  glass  offered  by  the  host,  and  recounted  the  news 
from  Oldport. 


CHAPTER  VI.    . 

On*  looking  back  in  after  life  to  that  brisk  winter's 
walk,  both  Everard  and  Maitland  held  it  as  one  of  their 
sunniest  memories.  Every  step  seemed  to  put  a  fresh 
lustre  in  Cyril's  eyes,  and  add  to  the  wine-like  sparkle  of 
liis  conversation.  In  proportion  as  his  spirits  fell  at  one 
time,  they  rose  at  another  by  virtue  of  his  sensitive,  emo- 
tional temperament;  while  Henry's  steady,  sunny  cheer- 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAV  MAITLAND.  63 

fulness  went  on  deepening  more  slowly,  but  perhaps 
more  surely,  and  at  last  bubbled  over.  Presently  they 
passed  a  woman  toiling  up  a  hill  with  a  baby  and  a 
basket,  of  both  which  burdens  Everard  relieved  her,  to 
her  unbounded  surprise,  coolly  handing  the  basket  to 
Cyril,  and  himself  bearing  the  baby,  which  he  tossed  till 
it  crowed  with  ecstacy.  Having  left  these  trifles  at  a 
roadside  cottage,  with  a  shilling  to  requite  the  woman  for 
the  loan  of  her  infant,  they  reached  Swaynestone  Park, 
and  met  Ben  Lee,  who  was  crossing  the  road  on  his  way 
from  his  cottage  to  the  stables. 

Everard  greeted  him  with  a  cordiality  to  which  Lee  re* 
plied  gruffly,  and  with  an  evident  intention  of  hurrying 
on. 

"Oh  come,  Lee,"  said  Everard,  "you  are  not  so  busy 
as  all  that!  How  are  they  all  up  at  the  Temple?  Alma's 
roses  in  full  bloom,  I  hope?  And  my  patient,  Mrs.  Lee, 
has  she  quite  got  over  the  acident?  I  shall  be  be  looking 
in  very  soon." 

"You  may  save  yourself  the  trouble,  Doctor  Everard," 
returned  Lee  in  a  surly  manner;  "thank  'ee  kindly  all 
the  same.  But  I  want  no  more  gentlefolk  up  at  my 
house.  I've  had  enough  of  they.  Good  afternoon,  Mr. 
Cyril;  glad  to  see  you  home,  sir;"  and,  touching  his  hat, 
he  passed  quickly  on,  leaving  Everard  in  a  state  of  stupe- 
faction in  the  middle  of  the  road. 

"What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  Lee?"  he  exclaimed. 
'Surely  he  can't  be  drunk,  Cyril." 

All  the  light  had  faded  from  Cyril's  radiant  face.  The 
moment  he  caught  sight  of  the  coachman,  he  made  the 
old  movement  of  pressing  his  hand  to  his  side  in  a  spasm 
of  pain,  and  he  seemed  almost  as  impatient  of  delay  as 
Lee  himself. 

"I  never  heard  of  his  drinking,"  he  replied,  evasively. 
"Perhaps  things  have  gone  wrong  with  him.  Look  her*e; 
Henry  I  let  us  cut  the  high-road,  and  get  home  across 
country;  we  shall  save  half  a  mile,  and  find  the  ladies 
at  tea."' 

"What  sense  can  you  get  out  of  a  fellow  in  love?" 
returned  Everard,  leading  the  way  over  the  stile.  <fFor 
him  mankind  dwindles  down  to  a  slim  puss  01  a  girl,  with 


64 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAX  MAINLAND. 


dimples  and  a  pair  of  brown  eyes.  Go  on,  man!  'Gather 
ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may;'"  and,  lilting  out  the  gay  old 
ballad  with  all  the  strength  of  his  honest  lungs,  Everard 
resumed  his  light-hearted  manner,  and  did  not  observe 
that  Cyril's  gayety  had  become  forced  and  spasmodic. 

A  ruddy  glow  above  the  wooded  crests  of  Northover 
was  all  that  remained  of  day  when  they  entered  the  rec- 
tory grounds  by  the  churchyard  path,  and  found  Lilian 
with  the  cat  gravely  coiled  at  her  feet  at  the  hall  door, 
darkly  outlined  against  the  faint,  crimson  light  of  the 
hall  stove. 

"Your  instinct  is  infallible,  Lilian,"  said  Cyril,  em- 
bracing her;  "for  you  were  not  even  sure  that  I  was  com- 
ing to-night.  Dear  Lilian,  it  is  nice  to  see  you  again!" 

"I  am  glad  not  to  be  wholly  eclipsed  by  the  new  star/' 
she  replied,  laughing,  yet  scanning  his  face  with  somj 
anxiety,  while  she  continued  to  hold  his  hand.  Then  she 
turned  to  Henry,  over  whose  spirits  an  unaccountable 
damp  had  descended,  and  offered  him  her  hand;  whils 
Cyril  stooped  to  stroke  Mark  Antony,  who  was  tri- 
umphantly rubbing  himself  round  and  round  his  legs 
with  loud  purrs  and  exultant  fail.  "I  am  so  glad  you 
have  brought  him,  Henry,"  she  said;  adding  in  a  lowei 
voice,  "he  is  looking  horribly  ill." 

By  this  time  Mr.  Maitland,  the  children,  the  dogs,  and 
all  the  servants  were  in  the  hall,  greeting  Cyril  with  such 
enthusiasm  that  Henry  remained  for  some  moments 
unnoticed  by  Lilian's  side. 

"You  all  seem  extremely  glad  to  see  Cyril,"  he  ob- 
served to  her,  with  rueful  emphasis. 

"Dear  Henry,  I  know  we  are  horribly  rude  to  our 
guests  when  we  have  Cyril  to  spoil,"  she  replied,  laying 
her  hand  gently  on  his  arm. 

He  took  the  hand  in  his  and  pressed  it  warmly  to  hi;t 
side,  and  felt  that  the  rainbow  radiance  had  suddenly 
returned  to  his  universe.  But  the  bright  moment  was 
very  brief,  for  it  was  now  his  turn  to  be  welcomed,  and 
by  the  time  he  was  free  to  go  into  the  drawing-room, 
Lilian  was  not  to  be  seen. 

"But  where  is  Marion?"  asked  Cyril,  looking  around 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  65 

•tee  drawing-room,  after  he  had  duly  saluted  his  mother, 
who  was,  as  usual,  on  her  couch. 

"I  think  you  will  find  her  in  my  room,"  replied  Lilian, 
as  indifferently  as  if  she  had  not  specially  arranged 
for  the  lovers  to  meet  there.  "We  dine  punctually  at 
half-past  seven.  No  Henry,  you  foolish  fellow,  you  are 
to  stay  here,"  she  added,  as  Cyril  left  the  room,  and 
Henry  attempted  to  follow  him. 

"A  brother,  I  suppose,  is  of  no  account  in  these  days," 
grumbled  Everard,  seating  himself  by  Mrs.  Maitland's 
couch  with  a  contented  air,  nevertheless.  "All  this 
courtship  is  sickening  to  me,  Mrs.  Maitland.  As  for  that 
hopeful  son  of  yours,  not  one  word  of  sense  have  I  got 
out  of  him  this  day,  nor  do  I  expect  to  get  for  the  next 
two  months.  Thank  goodness,  it  must  come  to  an  end 
then,  and  they  will  settle  down  to  a  life's  squabbling  like 
sane  people." 

"Ah,  young  people!  young  people,"  said  Mr.  Maitland, 
looking  very  happy  about  it.  "We  must  not  be  hard 
upon  them,  Henry.  We  all  go  mad  once — Lennie  will 
turn  that  back  into  Latin  for  you,  eh?  But  we  consider 
Cyril  and  Marion  a  very  sensible  young  couple,  don't  we, 
Nellie?" 

"I  think,"  replied  Mrs.  Maitland,  laughing,  "that  we 
consider  everything  that  Cyril  does  sensible.  When  his 
biography  is  written,  it  will  be  said  that  his  family  did, 
to  a  certain  extent,  appreciate  him." 

Whereupon  the  conversation  turned  upon  Cyril  and  his 
doings  and  prospects,  and  their  anxiety  about  him,  and 
suddenly  the  thought  struck  chill  to  Everard's  mar- 
row: What  would  happen,  in  case  of  Cyril's  failure, 
death,  or  other  misadventure,  to  the  innocent  family 
circle  of  which  he  was  the  central  hope? 

The  curtains  were  drawn  snugly  against  the  frosty  cold 
without  Eliza  all  smiles  and  fresh  cap-ribbons,  brought 
a  lamp  and  tea;  and  Everard  wondered  if  Heaven  could 
possibly  be  an  improvement  on  the  present.  No  one  ever 
made  or  poured  out  tea  like  Lilian,  he  thought;  no  tea 
ever  had  so  divine  an  effect  on  the  nervous  system  as 
hers.  For  weeks  he  had  dreamed  of  sitting  thus  by  the 
drawing-room  fire,  his  whole  being  pervaded  by  the 


66  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MA1TLAND. 

delicious  fact  of  her  presence,  and  now  he  found  the 
reality  sweeter  than  the  dream. 

Not  for  weeks  only,  but  for  years  afterward,  did  the 
memory  of  that  fireside  scene  shine  warmly  on  the  dark- 
ness of  his  life.  The  lamplight  was  so  soft  that  the  fire, 
on  which  Lennie  had  thrown  some  fir-cones,  disputed  for 
mastery  with  it,  and  added  to  the  cheery  radiance  of  the 
pretty  drawing-room.  On  one  side  of  the  fire,  Mrs. 
Maitland,  still  beautiful,  though  faded,  and  exquisitely 
dressed,  lay  on  her  couch  amidst  becomingly  arranged 
furs  and  shawls;  Henry  sat  by  her  on  a  low  seat,  and 
rendered  her  various  little  filial  attentions;  Mr.  Maitland 
sat  facing  the  fire,  with  its  light  playing  on  his  silver 
hair  and  clean-cut  features,  the  prototype  of  Cyril's. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  hearth  sat  Lilian,  with  the 
tea-table  at  her  side;  Winnie  was  on  a  stool  at  her  feet, 
her  head  pressed  to  her  sister's  knee,  on  which  reposed, 
in  careless  majesty,  Mark  Antony,  gracefully  toying  with 
the  golden  curls  tossed  in  pretty  negligence  within  reach 
of  his  paws.  The  warm  rug  before  the  fire  was  occupied 
by  the  terrier  and  the  pug,  the  children's  tea-cups,  and 
the  recumbent  full-length  of  Lennie,  who  sprung  to  his 
feet  from  time  to  time  to  pass  people's  cups. 

Lilian  spoke  little.  She  and  Henry  did  not  address 
each  other  once ;  but  his  eye  never  lost  the  picture  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  fire,  which  reminded  him  of  Raphael's 
Virgin  of  the  Cardellino.  It  was  not  that  Lilian's 
intelligent  face  in  the  least  resembled  that  harmless, 
faultlessly  featured  Madonna's,  though  her  deep  gray  eyes 
were  bent  down  much  in  the  same  way  on  the  child-face 
and  sportive  animal  on  her  knee  as  the  Virgin's  in  the 
picture.  It  was  the  look  of  divine,  innocent,  ineffable  con- 
tent that  she  wore.  And  yet  Everard  did  not  appear  to 
be  looking  at  this  charming  picture,  though  Lilian  knew 
that  he  saw  it,  and  was  equally  conscious  of  the  picture 
he  made,  his  broad  shoulders  and  athletic  limbs  affording 
a  fine  contrast  to  her  mother's  fragile,  faded  grace. 

"And  what  are  your  plans,  Henry?"  asked  Mr.  Mait- 
land at  last,  when  Cyril's  affairs  had  been  dis- 
cussed over  and  over  again. 

"I  think  of  buying  a  good  practice  near  Southampton, 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAX  MAITLAND.  67 

and  settling  down  as  a  country  doctor,"  he  replied.  "I 
have  enough  property  to  make  me  fairly  independent, 
and  shall  be  able  to  carry  on  my  scientific  pursuits  with- 
out fear  of  starvation." 

"And  the  next  step,  I  suppose,  will  be  to  take  a  wife?" 

"The  very  next  step,"  replied  Everard,  looking 
thoughtfully  into  the  glowing  heart  of  the  fire. 

Lilian  bent  her  head  a  little,  and  caught  away  a  curl 
at  which  Mark  Antony  was  snatching.  "If  no  one  is 
going  to  have  any  more  tea,  pussie  shall  have  the  rest  of 
the  cream,"  she  said. 

Cyril,  in  the  meantime,  quickly  found  his  way  to  the 
well-known  room  called  Lilian's,  where  Marion  was 
sitting,  in  the  dusk,  alone,  but  acutely  conscious  of  the 
light,  swift  steps  along  the  corridor  which  bore  her 
expected  lover  to  her  side.  They  met  in  silence,  each 
young  heart  being  too  full  for  speech;  and  it  was  not 
until  Cyril  had  released  Marion  from  his  embrace,  and 
placed  her  in  a  chair  by  the  fireside,  that  he  said,  kneel- 
ing on  the  rug  near  her: 

"Am  I  indeed  quite  forgiven,  Marion?" 

"You  foolish  fellow!  How  many  times  have  I  written 
that  word?"  she  replied,  laughing. 

"Written,  yes;  but  I  want  to  hear  from  your  own  lips — 
I  want  to  be  quite  sure,"  he  continued,  with  unabated 
earnestness,  the  blue  fire  of  his  eyes  bent  upon  her  soft 
brown  gaze,  while  he  held  both  her  hands  pressed  against 
his  breast. 

"Dear  Cyril,  you  make  too  much  of  what  is  better  for- 
gotten," she  said.  "We  quarreled  long  ago  and  made  it 
up  long  ago,  though  we  have  not  met  since." 

"Forgotten?  Oh,  Marion,  do  you  think  I  can  ever  for- 
get? And  though  you  forgive  me,  do  you  think  I  can 
ever  forgive  myself?" 

"Certainly,  don't  lovers  always  quarrel;  and  are  they 
not  better  friends  afterward?  And  don't  you  mean  to 
forgive  poor  me?  I  have  forgiven  us  both;  though, 
indeed,  those  few  months  were  very  dreadful." 

"Dreadful!  They  were  more  than  dreadful  to  me. 
Oh,  Marion,  if  you  knew,  if  you  only  dreamed,  how  un- 
worthy I  am,  you  who  are  so  white,  so  stainless!  You  can 


68  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEA.V  MAITLAND. 

never  guess.     Sometimes  I  wonder  that  I  ever  dare  hope 
to  call  you  mine,  so  black  am  I  in  comparison  with  you.'; 

"Cyril,  this  is  lover's  talk — exaggeration.  It  makes 
me  feel  ashamed/'  she  replied,  soft  blushes  stealing  over 
her  gentle  face  in  the  firelight;  "  it  makes  me  remember 
that  I  am  but  a  weak,  foolish  girl,  and  greatly  need  the 
guidance  of  a  strong,  good  man  like  you." 

"Good!  God  help  me!"  he  exclaimed,  turning  his  face 
from  the  modest  glance  that  seemed  to  scorch  his  very 
soul.  "Marion,  I  am  not  good;  there  is  no  weaker  man 
than  I  on  God's  earth,  and  without  you  I  think  I  should 
be  utterly  lost.  Do  you  know — no,  you  never  can  kno.w 
— what  it  is  to  be  able  to  love  a  good  woman ;  to  feel  the  • 
vileness  die  out  of  one  at  the  very  thought  of  her;  to  be 
strengthened  and  purified  by  the  very  atmosphere  she 
breathes — to  feel  at  the  thought  of  losing  her — Marion., 
dear  Marion,  I  think  sometimes  if  you  knew  the  darkness 
that  was  upon  my  soul  during  those  wretched  months 
when  we  were  parted,  I  fear — oh,  I  fear  that  you  would 
cast  me  off  with  loathing  and  scorn — " 

Marion  smiled  a  gentle  smile,  only  dimly  seeing  the 
passionate  agony  in  Cyril's  shadowed  face.  "I  know  that 
I  could  never  scorn  you,"  she  interrupted,  with  tender 
emphasis. 

Cyril  bent  his  head  over  her  hands  in  silence  for  a  few 
seconds;  and  then,  looking  up  again,  said  in  a  more  col- 
lected manner,  "Marion,  will  you  take  me,  worthless  as  I 
am,  and  bear  with  me  and  cleave  to  me  through  good  and 
evil  report,  and  help  me,  in  spite  of  the  past,  to  be  a  bet- 
ter man?" 

"Dear,"  she  replied,  gently,  "I  have  taken  you  for 
better  and  for  worse.  I  don't  expect  you  to  be  faultless, 
though  I  do  admire  and  honor  you  above  all  men.  I 
should  be  sorry  if  you  were  faultless,  because,  you  know  I 
am  not  faultless  myself;  I  am  not  like  Lilian,  even.  We 
shall  help  each  other  to  be  wiser  and  better,  I  hope." 

Cyril  had  averted  his  face  from  the  innocent,  loving 
gaze  he  could  not  endure,  but  he  turned  once  more  and 
looked  into  Marion's  charming  face,  which  was  radiant  in 
a  sudden  burst  of  firelight,  while  his  o~vn  remained  in 
darker  shadow  than  ever.  "Promise  me  once  more,"  he 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  69 

said,  in  a  low,  impassioned  voice,  "that  you  will  never 
ieave  me." 

Marion  suffered  herself  to  glide  into  the  embrace  before 
her,  and  repeated  the  promise,  half  laughing  to  herself  at 
the  foolish  importance  assigned  to  trifles,  by  lovers,  and 
half  believing  in  the  intensity  of  the  oft-repeated  assur- 
ances, and  was  very  happy  until  a  discreet  clatter  of  silver 
and  china  was  heard  outside,  followed  by  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and,  after  an  interval,  the  entrance  of  Eliza,  who 
was  edified  to  find  Marion  at  one  end  of  the  room,  adjust- 
ing some  china  on  a  bracket,  and  Cyril  at  the  other,  gaz- 
ing out  of  the  window  with  great  interest  at  the  frosty 
stars. 

When  the  candles  were  lighted,  the  curtains  drawn  and 
the  tea  poured  out,  all  traces  of  his  passionate  agitation 
had  left  Cyril's  beautiful,  severely  cut  features,  and  he  sat 
by  Marion's  side,  tea-cup  in  hand,  quiet  and  content,  the 
very  picture  of  the  ideal  curate  of  commonplace  just  drop- 
ped in  to  tea. 

Marion  now  saw  him  clearly,  and  was  distressed  at  his 
wan  and  worn  appearance,  and  also  at  a  certain  look  he 
never  had  before  the  fatal  winter  she  passed  in  the  Medi- 
terranean with  her  brother.  Since  then  she  had  met  him 
face  to  face  but  once,  on  the  day  when  he  came  to  ask 
forgiveness  and  renew  the  engagement,  and  then,  natu- 
rally, he  did  not  look  like  his  old  self.  "Was  it  only 
tod  which  had  robbed  Cyril  of  the  bloom  of  his  youth  ?" 
she  wondered,  and  she  sighed.  "It  was  time  you  had 
a  holiday,  I  think,"  shs  said,  softly.  "You  must  not  be 
such  an  ascetic  any  more;  you  do  not  belong  to  a  celi- 
bate priesthood,  remember." 

'This  is  not  exactly  the  cell  of  an  anchorite,"  replied 
Cyril,  with  the  smile  which  won  so  many  hearts,  as  he 
rested  his  head  comfortably  on  the  back  of  his  low  chair, 
and  gazed  upon  Marion's  slender  grace.  "Mayn't  I 
have  another  lump  of  sugar,  Marion?  Lilian  and  I  have 
expended  much  thought  on  the  decoration  of  this  room." 

"And  taste/'  said  Marion,  looking  round  upon  the 
pictures  and  bric-a-brac  and  various  evidences  of  cul- 
tured taste,  though  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  two 


70 


SILENCE  OF  DZAX  MA1TLAXD. 


lovers  were  there  to  discuss  nothing  but  the  decoration  of 
Lilian's  room. 

Cyril  had  spoken  hotly  of  his  dislike  to  Marion's  Medi- 
terranean tour;  and  Marion's  pride  had  been  touched  till 
she  reminded  him  that  she  was  entirely  her  own  mistress, 
and  might  probably  continue  so  to  the  end  of  the  chap- 
ter. Then  ensued  a  quarrel,  only  half-serious  on  either 
side,  a  quarrel  that  a  word  or  look  would  have  righted 
in  a  moment.  But,  unfortunately,  Marion  had  to  join 
her  friends,  the  Wilmots,  sooner  than  she  anticipated,  and 
thus  hurried  off  before  she  could  say  good-bye  to  Cyril 
and  make  things  straight  with  one  little  smile. 

The  game  of  quarreling,  when  carried  on  between  two 
young,  ardent  lovers,  is  a  very  pretty  diversion,  but  can- 
not possibly  be  played  at  a  distance,  as  these  two  found 
to  their  cost.  Deprived  of  the  fairy  artillery  of  glances, 
sighs,  voices,  and  gestures,  and  confined  t'o  the  heavy 
ordinance  of  letters,  they  could  not  bring  things  to  ;i 
happy  conclusion.  Letters  were  first  hot,  then  c6id, 
then  after  a  long  silence,  to  ask  Marion  how  long  she 
meant  to  play  with  his  affections.  Marion  replied  that 
if  Cyril  considered  their  engagement  as  a  mere  pastime, 
the  sooner  it  was  broken  off  the  better.  Cyril  wrote 
rare,  then  non-existent,  until  one  day  Cyril  wrote  back 
to  release  her  from  an  engagement  which  he  said  he  per- 
ceived had  become  distasteful  to  her. 

This  was  in  March.  At  Whitsuntide  Everard  spejit 
some  time  at  Malbourne,  whence  Cyril  went  to  Belmin- 
ster  for  ordination  at  Trinity.  He  thought  Cyril  unhappy, 
and  after  the  ordination  he  asked  him,  subsequently  to 
some  conversation  with  Lilian  on  the  subject,  if  he  still 
cared  for  Marion,  to  which  Cyril  replied  in  the  affirma- 
tive. Then  Henry  told  him  that  Marion  was  pining  and 
showing  tendencies  to  consumption.  She  was  the  kind 
of  woman,  he  said,  whose  health  is  perfect  in  happiness, 
but  who  breaks  down  the  moment  that  elixir  of  life  is  de- 
nied. He  thought  that  she  loved  Cyril  still. 

Thus  emboldened,  Cyril  owned  himself  in  the  wrong, 
and  sued  for  a  return  to  favor.  He  could,  however,  only 
afford  one  brief  interview  with  Marion,  since  he  had,  with 
some  difficulty,  freed  him  from  the  curacy  at  Shotover. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  71 

had  given  him  a  title  to  deacon's  orders,  and  got 
himself  placed  on  a  mission  staff  in  the  East  of  London, 
where  he  led  a  semi-monastic  life  i  a  house  with  his  fel- 
low-curates, and  enjoyed  to  the  full  and  hard  labor  for 
which  he  had  clamored  so  eagerly  while  at  Shotover. 

The  situation  was  eminently  unfavorable  to  courtship, 
while  it  seemed  to  render  marriage  absolutely  impractica- 
ble. Cyril,  however,  found  a  means  of  reconciling  duty 
with  inclination,  and  easily  convinced  his  rector  that  his 
labors  would  be  equally  valuable  if  he  had  a  home  of  his 
own  within  easy  reach  of  the  scene  of  his  toils,  and  thus 
they  \vere  to  be  married  in  the  spring.  The  narrow 
means  which  so  frequently  darken  the  horizon  of  curates' 
love  dreams  had  no  place  in  this  romance,  since  both 
Cyril  and  Marion  had  wherewithal  to  keep  the  wolf  from 
the  door. 

But  they  are  together  at  last,  and  the  dark  days  which 
divided  them  are  to  be  forgotten. 

"When  I  hear  the  word  ''misery,'  I  think  of  last 
spring,"  said  Marion,  laughing. 

Cyril's  face  clouded,  and  he  turned  away  and  gazed  at 
the  fire.  "Never  think  of  it!"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly 
turning  a  bright,  animated  gaze  upon  Marion.  "I  shall 
drive  it  from  your  memory,  dear,  by  every  act  and 
thought  of  my  life." 

Dinner,  the  hour  so  fondly  welcomed  by  mortals  in 
general,  came  all  too  soon  for  these;  and,  indeed,  it  was 
not  till  the  others  had  taken  their  places  at  the  table  that 
Marion  made  her  appearance,  flushed  and  charming,  avid 
met  her  brother  for  the  first  time  since  his  arrival  in  the 
house. 

"This  is  an  improvement,"  he  said,  holding  her  at 
arm's  length  to  look  at  her,  "on  the  mealy  faced  girl  I 
saw  three  months  ago.  Pray,  miss,  where  do  you  get 
you  rouge?" 

"Manufactured  on  the  estate,  Henry,"  replied  Mr. 
Maitland.  "Native  Maitland  rouge.  Let  us  hope 
Cyril  may  acquire  some  of  it." 

"It  comes  off  easily,"  said  Everard  gravely,  while  Cyril 
became  absorbed  in  Mark  Antony,  who  sat  on  a  stool  at 
Lilian's  side  at  the  head  of  the  table,  with  his  chin  on  a 


72  THE   SILENCE'  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

level  with  the  cloth,  and  who  was  so  enchanted  to  find 
himself  with  a  twin  on  each  side  of  him,  that  his  deep 
mellifluous  purrs  threatened  to  drown  the  conversation. 

"You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  Granfer  is  still  alive 
and  well,  and  wiser  than  ever,  Henry,"  said  Mrs.  Mait- 
land,  who  was  sitting  on  his  right,  having  as  usual, 
resigned  the  head  of  the  table  to  Lilian. 

"I  congratulate  Malbourne,  Mrs.  Maitland.  It  could 
never  go  on  without  Granfer's  advice.  And  the  discon- 
tented Baines  has  not  yet  blown  you  all  up?  And  friend 
Wax  still  wields  the  ferule  in  defiance  of  Lilian?" 

"But  not  in  church,"  said  Lilian. 

"Because  Lilian  steals  the  cane  if  he  brings  it,"  added 
Marion. 

"And  is  anybody  engaged,  or  born,  or  dead?"  con- 
tinued Everard,  gayly.  "By  the  way,  what  has  hap- 
pened to  Ben  Lee?  It  struck  me  he  had  been  drinking 
this  afternoon.  And  our  friend  Alma,  how  is  she?" 

There  was  a  dead  silence  for  a  second  or  two,  and 
Everard's  eager  gaze  of  inquiry  met  no  response  from  the 
eyes  bent  resolutely  on  the  plates. 

"Let  us  send  you  some  more  beef,  Henry,"  said  Mr. 
Maitland,  looking  up  from  his  joint  with  sudden  brisk- 
ness. "Come,  where  is  your  boasted  appetite?  Yes, 
bring  Doctor  Everard's  plate,  Eliza." 

"But,  Alma?  Oh,  I  hope  there  is  nothing  wrong  with 
her?"  continued  Everard,  looking  around  with  a  dismayed 
gaze,  while  Mrs.  Maitland  laid  her  hand  warningly  on  his 
sleeve.  "Oh,  Lilian,  Alma  is  not  dead?" 

"Worse,"  replied  Lilian,  in  a  low  voice — "far  worse." 

There  were  tears,  he  saw  trembling  upon  her  eyelashes; 
and  if  even  tears  resembled  pearls,  then,  he  thought,  did 
those  precious  drops,  and  if  ever  mortal  woman  was  dear, 
then  was  Lilian.  He  saw  it  all  now  on  the  instant,  and 
he  remembered  how  much  Lilian  had  done  for  Alma,  and 
how  at  Whitsuntide  she  had  spoken  of  her  and  cared 
about  her  absence  from  the  Sacrament,  and  so  dismayed 
was  he  by  this  catastrophe  that,  having  none  of  the  ready 
resources  and  fine  tact  which  insure  social  success,  he 
simply,  like  the  honest,  clumsy  fellow  he  was,  dropped 
his  knife  and  fork,  and  gazed  horror-struck  before  him. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


73 


Fortunately,  at  that  moment  Lennie,  who  was  stretched 
on  the  hearth-rug,  intent  upon  "Ivanhoe,"  bethought 
himself  of  an  important  event,  and  took  advantage  of  the 
silence  to  proclaim  it. 

"I  say,  Henry,"  he  exclaimed,  "what  do  you  think? 
I'm  going  into  trousers  to-morrow." 

"Why,  it  was  all  over  Oldport,"  said  Cyril.  "Bills  in 
every  window.  'Oh  yes!  oh  yes!  oh  yes!  Know  all  by 
these  present  that  Lennie  Maitland  goes  into  trousers  to- 
morrow.' " 

"Oh,  won't  I  smack  you  by  and  by!"  observed  Lennie, 
tranquilly  returning  to  the  jests  of  Brain  de  Bois-Guil- 
bert. 

"I  think,  Cyril,  you  scarcely  appreciate  the  honor 
Jyour  brother  intends  you,"  said  Mr.  Maitland.  "He  dons 
these  virile  garments  for  the  purpose  of  hearing  your  ser- 
mon. He  evidently  holds  trousers  to  be  conducive  to  a 
pious  frame  of  mind,  or  at  least  to  a  certain  mental 
receptivity;  eh,  Lennie,  lad?" 

"The  unfortunate  tailor's  life  has  been  a  burden  to 
him  in  the  fear  that  the  suit  would  not  be  ready  in  time," 
said  Mrs.  Maitland. 

"In  time  to  hear  Cywil  pweach,"  added  Marion,  laugh- 
Ing. 

"How  many  times  have  they  been  tried  on,  Lennie?" 
asked  Lilian. 

"Never  you  mind  their  rubbish,"  said  Everard;  "ask 
Miss  Mawion  how  often  she  called  me  Henwy." 

'And  Cywil  will  line  the  pockets  with  silver  for  you," 
added  Cyril,  who  was  looking  very  happy,  having,  as 
Eliza  observed  with  satisfaction,  his  hand  locked  in  Ma- 
rion's under  the  table-cloth. 

No  sooner  had  the  ladies  withdrawn,  than  Everard 
burst  out,  "And  who  is  the  scoundrel?" 

"Softly,  softly,  Henry,  beware  of  rash  judgments,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Maitland,  whose  face  took  a  grieved  look. 
"Nothing  is  known,  which  is  hateful  to  me  because  of 
the  great  wave  of  scandal  and  the  dreadful  scorching  of 
tongues  which  arises  about  the  matter.  Lee,  I  know  not 
why,  assumes  that  it  is  a  gentleman ;  and  public  opinion, 
and.  I  tear  I  must  add,  his  reputation,  point  to  Ingram 


74 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


Swaynestone.  Sir  Lionel  has  spoken  to  him,  but  he  abso- 
lutely denies  it,  and,  indeed — 

"In  short,"  broke  in  Cyril,  who  was  extremely  busy 
with  some  walnuts  on  his  plate,  "the  less  said  about  these 
miserable  scandals  the  better." 

"True,  quite  true,"  said  his  father  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"But  Alma!  the  little  girl  we  used  to  play  with  at  the 
Temple,  with  Lilian,  and  often  Ingram,  and  the  girl 
Swaynestones!"  cried  Henry.  "I  cannot  believe  any 
wrong  of  her.  She  has  been  wronged — of  that  I  am 
sure." 

"Truly,  I  had  never  dreamed  of  such  trouble  for  Alma, 
poor  child,"  said  Mrs.  Maitland.  "Elsewhere  in  the 
parish,  of  course,  one  dreads  such  things,  knowing  their 
temptations.  It  is  a  heavy  grief  for  me,  Henry,  as  you 
may  imagine." 

"And  for  Lilian,"  added  Everard.  "Yes,  I  know  how 
you  love  your  spiritual  children,  sir,  and  can  imagine 
your  distress.  And  poor  Lee,  he  was  so  proud  of  her. 
He  is  sullen,  I  see;  a  sure  sign  of  grief.  Oh,  I  hope  he  is 
not  unkind  to  her!" 

"The  step-mother  is  hard,  and  has  a  sharp  tongue !  She 
forgets  what  poor  Alma  did  for  her  child.  Altogether, 
it  is  a  sad,  sad,  history.  The  Temple,  I  suppose,  holds 
more  unhappiness  than  any  house  in  the  county." 

"Oh,  really,  my  dear  father,"  exclaimed  Cyril,  who 
seemed  pained  beyond  endurance,  "you  must  not  take  it 
so  to  heart!  She  is  not  the  first — " 

"By  Jove,  Maitland!"  interrupted  Everard,  "you  are 
the  last  man  from  whom  I  should  expect  an  echo  of 
Mephistopheles.  He  never  said  anything  more  diabolical 
than  that — 'Sie  ist  die  Erste  nicht.' " 

Cyril  colored  so  hotly  that  he  exhibited  the  phenome- 
non of  a  black  blush,  while  Mr.  Maitland  hastened  to  ;ay 
that  Cyril  was  in  a  different  position  from  Faust,  who 
had  wrought  the  wrong.  "And  then,"  he  added, 
"Cyril  is  doubtless  weary  of  sin  and  sorrow,  of  which,  in 
his  parish,  he  must  have  far  more  than  we  in  our  simple 
rustic  home  have  any  idea  of,  busy  as  Satan  undoubtedly 
is  everywhere." 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  75 

"Quite  so,"  returned  Cyril,  wearily.  "My  words 
sounded  unfortunately,  Everard;  but,  as  my  father  sug- 
gests, when  one  has  breakfasted  and  lunched  for  weeks 
upon  peccant  parishioner,  one  does  not  enjoy  the  same 
dish  at  dinner." 

Everard's  rejoinder  was  prevented  by  the  intrusion  of  a 
sunny  head  at  the  door,  and  the  clear  voice  of  Winnie 
was  heard  crying,  "Do  make  haste!  Me  and  Lennie  want 
to  know  what  is  in  that  basket,  and  Lilian  won't  let  us." 
Whereupon  Cyril  sprang  up  and  chased  the  delighted 
child  through  the  hall  and  into  the  drawing- 
room,  where  she  took  refuge,  screaming,  in  Lilian's 
dress. 

The  basket  which  so  stimulated  the  children's  curiosity 
was  well-known  to  contain  the  young  men's  Christmas 
gifts  to  the  family,  and  was  forthwith  uncovered  amid  a 
scene  of  joyous  turbulence,  and  had  its  contents  distrib- 
uted. 

The  task  of  collecting  the  parcels  in  the  basket  and 
conveying  them  to  the  drawing-room  had  been  performed 
by  Eliza  with  thrills  of  delicious  agony,  for  it  was  almost 
beyond  human  nature  not  to  take  at  least  one  peep  at  a 
packet  containing  the  very  ribbon  she  longed  for,  and  at 
another  revealing  glimpses  of  a  perfect  love  of  a  shawl, 
which  proved  to  be  destined  for  cook.  However,  she 
appeared  with  a  perfectly  demure  countenance  when 
fetched  by  Lennie,  with  the  other  maids,  to  receive  her 
presents.  By  that  time  Mr.  Maitland  had  become  lost  to 
all  earthly  care,  and  in  an  arm-chair,  with  an  old  battered 
volume  Everard  had  picked  up  at  a  book-stall  in  Paris 
for  him;  Winnie  was  wondering  if  some  fairy  had  in- 
formed Henry  that  a  fishing-rod  of  hej  very  own  had 
been  her  soul's  unattainable  star  for  months;  and  Lennie 
was  dancing  around  the  room  with  an  illustrated  "Don 
Quixote"  clasped  in  his  arms. 

It  was  pleasant  to  see  Cyril  making  his  gifts.  Each 
was  offered  with  a  suitable  word,  tender  or  droll,  accord- 
ing to  the  recipient,  and  with  the  grace  that  an  emperor 
might  have  envied,  though  a  carping  observer  would  have 
detected  that  the  gifts  themselves  had  been  purchased 
as  nearly  as  possible  at  the  same  shop.  As  for  Everard, 


76  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  M  AIT  LAND. 

he  made  his  offerings  with  a  sneaking  air,  and  seemed 
glad  to  get  them  off  his  hands.  He  threw  the  "Don 
Quixote"  at  Lennie,  with  "Here  you  scamp!"  and 
placed  the  invalid  reading-stand  by  Mrs.  Maitland,  with 
an  awkward,  "I  don't  know  if  this  thing  will  be  any  good 
to  you." 

"Why,  Henry,  who  told  you  that  father's  life  has  been 
a  burden  to  him  for  months  for  want  of  that  old  edition?" 
asked  Lilian. 

"He  is  a  wizard ;  he  should  be  burned,"  laughed  Cyril, 
reflecting  inwardly  that  while  his  gifts  cost  money, 
Everard's  cost  time  and  thought  and  infinite  trouble  in 
hunting  out. 

"But  ain't  Lilian  to  have  anything?"  inquired  the  ingen- 
uous Lennie;  for  Lilian  and  Cyril  never  gave  each  other 
presents — they  had  things  so  much  in  common,  and  Ever- 
ard  appeared  to  have  forgotten  her. 

Lilian  appealed  as  usual,  to  Mark  Antony  for  sym- 
pathy, and  Everard  grew  very  hot,  while  Cyril  absorbed 
himself  in  fitting  the  bracelet  he  had  given  Marion 
upon  her  slender  arm.  Then  Lilian  looked  up. 

"It  was  horrid  of  you  to  forget  me,  Henry,"  she  said. 

"I  didn't  forget  you,"  stammered  Everard;  "but  the 
thing  was  so  trifling  I  hadn't  the  courage —  It's  only  a 
photograph  of  the  picture  which  inspired  Browning's 
'Guardian  Angel.'  Here  it  is,  if  you  think  it  worth  hav- 
ing. You  said  you  would  give  anything  to  see  Guercino's 
picture  at  Fano." 

"Oh,  Henry,  how  very  kind  and  thoughtful  of  you!" 
exclaimed  Lilian,  her  face  transfigured  wth  pleasure. 
"But  I  thought  there  was  no  photograph?" 

"Well,  no;  but  young  Stobart  was  doing  Italy  in  the 
autumn,  and  I  got  him  to  go  to  Fano  with  his  camera. 
It  wasn't  far  out  of  his  way,"  he  replied,  in  a  tone  of 
apology. 

Lennie's  solicitude  being  relieved,  he  and  the  others 
were  absorbed  each  after  his  own  fashion;  no  one  ob- 
served these  two.  Lilian  looked  up  at  Henry,  who  had 
thrown  himself  into  a  low  chair  by  her  side,  so  that  their 
faces  were  on  a  level.  Her  eyes  were  dewy  and  bright; 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAXD.  77 

they  gazed  straight  into  his  for  a  minute,  and  then  fell. 
"You  had  it  done  for  me,"  she  murmured. 

It  was  the  crowning  moment  of  Everard's  happy  night. 
He  bent  over  the  spirit-like  hand  resting  on  the  cat,  and 
unseen  pressed  his  lips  to  it.  He  knew  that  Lilian  loved 
him,  and  knew  that  he  loved  her.  He  said  nothing 
more;  it  was  enough  bliss  for  one  day. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Before  going  to  rest  that  night,  Mr.  Maitland  led 
Everard  to  his  study,  and  there  subjected  him  to  a  search- 
ing cross-examination  on  the  subject  of  Cyril's  care-worn 
and  unhealthy  appearance,  which  Everard  referred  to  his 
overzeal  in  his  labors,  and  the  excessive  austerities  which 
he  practiced. 

"It  would  be  all  very  well  for  him  to  mortify  his  flesh 
if  he  had  too  much  of  it  to  balance  his  spirit,"  Everard 
observed ;  "but  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  has  too  little." 

"Cyril  is  sensitive,"  his  father  replied;  "his  nerves  are 
too  tensely  strung,  like  those  of  all  extremely  refined  and 
poetic  natures.  We  thought,  Lilian  and  I,  that  it  was 
the  estrangement  from  Marion  which  was  preying  on  him. 
It  was  that  which  caused  him  to  leave  Shotover,  and 
plunge  into  this  terrific  London  work — that  and,  of 
course,  higher  motives." 

"Cyril,  though  healthy,  is  delicate,"  replied  Everard. 
"He  ought  never  to  fast;  he  cannot  bear  it,  especially 
when  working.  His  brain  will  give  way  under  such  dis- 
cipline. Observe  him  to-morrow  when  he  preaches. 
There  is  too  much  nervous  excitement." 

The  next  morning  Cyril  did  not  appear  till  the  end  of 
breakfast,  and  then  took  nothing  but  a  cup  of  coffee. 

"Really,  Cyril,  I  did  think  Sunday  at  least  was  a  feast 
day!'*  cried  Everard,  pausing  in  his  own  manful  assault 
on  a  well-piled  plate  of  beef. 

"But  Cyril  is  to  celebrate  to-day;  he  must  fast,"  Lilian 
explained ;  and  then  Everard  observed  that  Mr.  Maitland's 
breakfast  consisted  of  nothing,  and  groaned  within  him- 


78  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

self,  and  asked  his  friends  if  they  considered  it  decorous 
for  clergymen  to  faint  in  the  midst  of  public  worship, 

"When  a  man  has  to  work,  he  should  feed  himself  into 
proper  condition,"  he  said  to  unheeding  ears. 

After  breakfast,  the  Maitland  family  repaired  in  a  body 
to  the  Sunday  school,  and  Everard  went  out  to  smoke  a 
pipe  alone,  and,  the  frost  being  keen,  he  wore  an  over- 
coat, finding  one  of  his  own  in  the  hall.  He  had  some 
difficulty  in  putting  it  on,  and  could  not  by  any  means 
induce  it  to  meet  across  the  chest.  This  gave  him  great 
satisfaction.  "It  cannot  be  that  my  Sunday-go-to-meet- 
ing clothes  take  up  so  much  room,"  he  mused.  "No;  I 
am  increasing  in  girth  around  the  chest.  Who  could 
imagine  that  one  night's  happiness  and  country  air  would 
produce  such  an  effect?  A  new  scientific  fact." 

It  was  pleasant  on  the  lawn  in  the  frosty  Sunday  still- 
ness. The  sunbeams  danced  on  the  evergreens  and 
smiled  on  the  Shotover  parklands;  a  robin  sang  its  cheer- 
fully pathetic  song;  and  a  flock  of  rooks  uttered  their 
breezy  caws  in  the  pale  blue  above  his  head.  Everard 
smoked  with  profound  enjoyment;  he  thought  of  last 
night's  enchantment,  and  the  promise  he  had  just  ex- 
tracted from  Lilian  to  sit  with  him  in  the  Rectory  pew 
instead  of  with  the  school  children.  His  hands  were 
thrust  for -warmth  into  his  coat  pockets,  and  in  one  of 
them  he  felt  the  square  outline  of  a  letter  which  he  drew 
out,  wondering — since  his  habits  were  neat  and  method- 
ical, as  became  a  student  of  natural  science — how  he 
came  to  leave  a  letter  there.  The  letter,  however,  had 
no  envelope  and  no  address.  He  opened  it,  and  found, 
in  the  half-formed,  clear  writing  of  an  unlearned  person, 
probably  some  patient  in  humble  life,  the  following': 

"No,  I  will  never,  never  marry  you.  What  good 
could  that  do  me,  now  you  do  not  love  me  no  more — me 
that  loved  you  better  than  Heaven  and  her  own  poor 
soul?  Would  I  like  to  see  you  miserable  and  spoil  your 
prospex?  To  marry  the  likes  of  me  would  ruin  you,  and 
how  could  that  make  me  happy?  Marry  her;  it  is  better 
for  you.  I  have  done  wrong  for  love  of  you  and  God 
will  punish  me.  But  you  are  sorry  and  will  be  forgiven. 
Farewell  forever.  Your  broken-hearted 

"A." 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  79 

The  gracious  light  of  the  wintry  morning  seemed  to 
fade  out  of  the  pale  pure  sky;  there  was  no  more  delight 
in  the  robin's  song;  the  bright  crystals  of  the  hoar-frost 
sparkled  in  vain  for  Everard.  "Why,  why  are  there  such 
things?"  he  murmured.  "Why  was  Cyril's  echo  of 
Mephistopheles  so  much  more  poignant  in  its  cynicism 
because  of  its  truth?" 

The  weak  suffering,  the  strong  going  scot-free;  Alcestis 
plunging,  love-radiant,  into  the  darknes  of  Hades,  while 
Admetus  rejoices  in  the  light  of  heaven;  women  trusting 
and  men  deceiving — what  a  world!  All  the  confused 
misery  of  the  painful  insoluble  riddle  of  earth  seemed  to 
awake  and  trouble  the  clear  happiness  of  Everard's  soul 
at  the  story  told  in  the  poor  little  scrap  of  paper,  the  more 
pathetic  for  its  bad  spelling  and  artless  grammar.  And 
how  came  such  an  epistle  in  his  pocket?  Doubtless  some 
friend  had  borrowed  his  coat ;  some  heedless  rackety  med- 
ical student,  perchance,  and  flavored  it  with  tobacco  and 
correspondence.  "Sie  ist  die  Erste  nicht"  the  rooks 
seemed  to  say  in  their  pleasant,  fresh  morning  caws. 

But  now  the  bells  came  chiming  slowly  on  the  clear 
air,  those  dear,  drowsy  three  strokes  which  awoke  in  his 
heart  so  many  echoes  of  home  and  boyhood  and  sweet 
innocent  life  beneath  the  beloved  roof  where  Lilian 
dwelt;  bells  calling  people  to  come  and  pray,  to  think  of 
God  and  heaven,  and  forsake  all  the  sin  and  sorrow  of  the 
troubled  earth — calling  people  to  hear  how  even  such 
black  things  as  the  letter  told  of  might  be  made  white 
again  like  snow;  to  hear  the  kind,  fatherly  counsels  of 
such  as  Mr.  Maitland  or  Cyril.  And  his  heart  swelled 
when  he  thought  that  Cyril  had  devoted  his  stainless 
youth,  his  bright  promise,  and  his  splendid  gifts  to  a  call- 
ing which,  however  vainly,  tried  to  stem  the  tide  of  all  this 
mad,  sad  evil,  and  lift  men  out  of  the  mire  of  earth's  mis- 
ery. How  beautiful  to  have  Cyril's  faith  and  the  power 
of  thus  consecrating  himself!  How  poor  in  comparison 
his  own  career,  devoted  merely  to  the  healing  of  men's 
bodies,  to  the  satisfaction  of  noble  desire  for  knowledge, 
and  the  widening  the  horizon  of  men's  thoughts! 

Like  all  thinkers,  and  especially  those  whose  thoughts 
dwell  much  on  the  study  of  natural  facts,  Everard  had 
many  doubts,  and  often  feared  that  the  Christianity  so 


&>  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

dear  to  him  through  instinct,  training,  and  association, 
might  be,  after  all,  but  a  fairy  dream.  But  the  atmos- 
phere of  Malbourne,  and  more  especially  the  influences  of 
Mr.  Maitland's  genuine  and  practical  piety,  together  with 
Cyril's  bright  enthusiasm,  quenched  these  doubts  as  noth- 
ing else  could ;  and  now  the  village  bells  fell  like  balm  on 
his  troubled  soul,  and  he  responded  with  cheery  good 
temper  to  Lennie,  who  came  bounding  over  the  lawn  in 
the  proud  consciousness  of  trousers,  crying,  "Come  along, 
Henry,  and  look  at  Lilian's  donkey." 

He  thrust  the  paper  in  his  pocket,  and  taking  the  little 
fellow's  hand,  trotted  off  with  him  toward  Winnie,  who 
was  approaching  them  at  headlong  pace,  with  curls 
streaming  in  the  wind,  and  soon  seized  his  other  hand, 
and  led  him  to  the  meadowy  where  he  beheld  one  of  the 
sorriest  beasts  he  had  ever  set  eyes  on,  cropping  the  frosty 
grass,  and  winking  lazily  in  the  sun. 

"What  can  Lilian  do  with  such  a  creature?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  she  makes  it  happy  like  all  her  things,"  replied 
Lennie.  "Won't  you  stare  when  you  see  her  three-legged 
cat,  and  the  fox  with  the  broken  leg  she  has  in  the 
stable!" 

"She  likes  hurt  things,"  commented  Winnie,  while 
Lennie  related  how  Lilian  met  this  donkey  one  day  in  the 
road  leading  over  the  downs.  It  was  harnessed  to  a  cart 
laden  with  vegetables,  and  had  fallen  between  the  shafts, 
where  its  owner,  a  brutal,  bad  fellow,  well  known  in  Mai- 
bourne,  was  furiously  belaboring  it 

"Didn't  he  stare  when  Lilian  caught  him  by  the  collar 
and  pulled  him  off  the  donkey!"  said  Lennie.  "Then  he 
fell  all  of  a  tremble,  and  Lilian  told  him  he  would  be  sent 
to  prison  or  fined.  And  he  said  he  was  too  poor  to  buy 
another  donkey,  and  couldn't  help  this  one  growing  old 
and  weak.  So  Lilian  gave  him  ten  shillings  for  it." 

"Dear  Lilian!"  Everard  said  to  himself,  as  he  looked 
at  the  wretched  beast,  with  its  stiff  limbs  and  body  scarred 
by  old  sores  and  stripes.  "Which  do  you  love  best,  Win- 
nie, Lilian  or  Cyril?" 

^"Cyril,"  replied  both  children,,  unhesitatingly,  but  could 
give  no  reason  for  their  preference,  until  Lennie,  after 
long  cogitation,  said,  "He  does  make  a  fellow  laugh  so." 

Everard  smiled,  and  thought  of  Wordsworth's  boy  with 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  8 1 

his  weather-cock.  The  day  was  warmer  now  and  bidding 
Lennie  run  in  doors  with  his  great  coat,  he  set  off  to 
church  with  the  children. 

It  was  a  matter  of  time  for  a  person  of  any  considera- 
tion to  get  through  Malbourne  church  yard,  for  there, 
grouped  upon  either  side  the  porch,  lounged  a  little 
crowd  of  Malbourne  worthies,  solemnly  passing  the 
church-goers  in  review,  and  headed,  of  course,  by  Gran- 
fer  in  a  clean  white  smock-frock,  and  with  his  hale  old 
many-colored  visage  and  veined  hands  looking  purplish 
in  the  frosty  air.  Tom  Hale  was  there  making  a  bright 
center  to  the  cool-toned  picture  in  his  red  tunic  and  spot- 
less, well-brushed  clothes;  while  Jem,  with  open  breast 
and  sailor  garb,  lent  a  bit  of  picturesque  that  not  even 
the  Sunday  coats  of  Baine's  manufacture  could  quite  sub- 
due. 

Lennie  held  up  his  head,  and  felt  that  his  trousers  were 
making  a  deep  impression;  while  Everard  stopped  and 
wished  a  good-morning  to  them  all,  smock-frocks,  Sun- 
day coats,  and  uniforms,  and  received  a  little  dignified 
patronage  from  Granfer,  who  had  always  regarded  him 
with  some  disparagement,  as  being  neither  a  Swaynestone 
nor  a  Maitland,  but  a  mere  appendage  to  the  latter  fam- 
ily, a  circumstance  which  helped  to  render  Granfer  the  de- 
light of  Everard's  life. 

The  present  moment  did  not  find  Granfer  conversa- 
tional, his  mental  powers  being  concentrated  on  observing 
the  animated  scene  before  him.  There  was  Farmer  Long, 
with  his  wife  and  daughters  in  their  warm  scarlets  and 
purples,  to  scrutinize  as  they  strolled  along  the  road  and 
over  the  churchyard  path;  then  the  more  distant  farmers, 
who  drove  up  to  the  lychgate  in  old-fashioned  gigs,  and, 
having  dropped  their  families,  hastened  to  the  Sun  to 
put  up  the  strong,  coarse-limbed  horses;  then  came  the 
Garrets  from  Northover,  new  people,  whom  Malbourne 
regarded  with  a  mixture  of  scorn  and  envy,  as  mere 
mushroom  pretenders.  They  came  on  foot,  their  own 
gates  being  but  a  stone's  throw  from  the  church,  a  hand- 
some family  of  sons  and  daughters,  coeval  with  the  Mait- 
lands.  To  them  Granfer's  salutation  was  almost  infini- 
tesimal in  its  elaborate  graduation.  Then,  bending 
with  the  drowsy  chime  of  the  three  bells,  arose  the  clatter 


82  THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

of  hoofs  and  the  roll  of  wheels,  and  the  Swaynestone 
landau,  with  its  splendid  high-stepping  horses,  swept 
easily  up  to  the  gate,  the  silver-mounted  harness,  the 
silken  coats  of  the  steeds,  the  panels,  and  the  revolving 
wheel-spokes  flashing  in  the  sun.  Granfer  did  not  know 
it,  but  perhaps  he  dimly  felt  that  the  splendor  of  this  ap- 
parition somewhat  enlarged  and  beautified  the  dim,  nar- 
row horizon  of  his  life. 

Ben  Lee's  very  livery,  not  to  speak  of  his  skilful  and 
effective  driving,  contributed  vaguely  to  Granfer's  impor- 
tance; as  also  did  the  courteous  elegance  and  finely  built 
form  of  Sir  Lionel,  and  the  manner  in  which,  the  foot- 
man having  retired  at  a  look,  he  handed  out  Lady 
Swaynestone  and  his  daughter  Ethel,  in  their  velvets  and 
furs.  But  Granfer  was  distressed  to  see  that  Ben  Lee 
no  longer  drove  up  with  his  former  dash,  and  turned  his 
shining  steeds  in  the  direction  of  the  Sun  with  no  more 
consequence  than  if  he  had  been  driving  a  mere  brewer's 
dray.  "Ah,  Ben  ain't  the  man  he  was!"  he  muttered, 
after  having  helped  Sir  Lionel  and  his  family  with  the 
sunshine  of  his  approbation  into  church. 

Then  came  the  tripping,  whispering  procession  of 
school  children,  led  by  the  rector,  followed  by  Wax,  who 
was  involved  in  the  double  misery  of  new  Sunday  broad- 
cloth and  the  absence  of  his  cane,  without  which  emblem 
of  authority  he  was  ever  a  lost  man;  and  last  of  all  came 
Cyril,  who  found  time  for  a  word  and  a  smile  for  each  of 
the  group,  and  left  them  all  exhilarated  by  his  passing 
presence  as  if  by  a  draught  of  wine.  Then  the  bells 
ceased,  the  loungers  entered  the  church,  and  Granfer  him- 
self, the  sunshine  warming  his  wintry  white  hair,  walked 
slowly  with  the  aid  of  his  stout  oak  staff  up  the  center 
aisle  to  his  alloted  place. 

He  was  already  seated,  and  Cyril's  musical  voice  had 
given  a  deeper  pathos  to  the  sentence,  "Hide  thy  face 
from  my  sins,"  when  Ingram  Swaynestone  and  his  sister 
Maude  entered,  rosy  and  fresh  from  their  long,  brisk  walk 
in  the  frosty  morning.  Ingram  Swaynestone  was  tall  and 
fair  and  strongly  built,  the  typical  young  Englishman, 
who  belongs  to  no  class  and  only  one  country,  physically 
perfect,  good-tempered,  and  well-spoken,  with  a  perfect 
digestion  and  a  nervous  system  undistraught  by  intellec- 


THE  SILEXCti   OF  DEAX   ^*ITLAND.  83 

tual  burdens  and  riddles  of  the  painful  earth.  His  ap- 
pearance, with  his  pretty,  fair-haired  sister,  caused  a  tiny 
stir,  almost  imperceptible,  like  a  summer  breath  through 
ripe  corn,  amongst  the  fairer  portion  of  the  congregation, 
with  whom  he  was  extremely  popular,  not  only  on  ac- 
count of  his  good  looks  and  known  appreciation  of  femi- 
nine charms,  but  also  because  of  a  faint  delicious  aroma 
of  wickedness  that  hung  about  his  name. 

The  devotions  of  several  undoubtedly  pious  young 
maidens  were  more  than  once  interrupted  for  the  purpose 
of  looking  to  see  if  he  was  looking,  which  he  certainly 
was  at  everyone  of  them  in  turn,  when  opportunity  per- 
mitted; while  Cyril's  beautiful  voice  rang  through  the 
church,  and  Everard  and  Lilian,  who  had  always  loved 
and  admired  the  simple  majesty  of  the  Liturgy,  felt  that 
they  never  before  had  known  its  real  beauty. 

When  he  read  of  the  Massacre  of  the  Innocents,  one  or 
two  women  cried.  The  tone  in  which  he  read  that 
Rachael  was  weeping  for  her  children  and  would  not  be 
comforted,  poignantly  reminded  them  that  they  could 
never  be  comforted  for  their  lost  little  ones  buried  out- 
side in  the  sunny  churchyard.  Henry,  and  Lilian,  and 
Marion,  and  the  children  all  gazed  up  with  admiring  af- 
fection at  the  beautiful  young  priest  standing  white-robed 
outside  the  chancel  at  the  eagle  lecturn,  Henry  thinking 
that  the  music  of  Cyril's  voice  alone  surpassed  any  chant- 
ed cathedral  service. 

Often  in  after  years  did  Henry  and  Lilian  think  of  that 
sweet  Sunday  morning  with  refreshment:  the  solemn 
beauty  of  the  old  church,  with  its  heavy  Norman  arches; 
the  sunshine  stealing  in,  mellow  and  soft,  through  the 
south  windows  and  tinging  the  snowy  frock  of  Granfer, 
who  sat  just  below  the  chancel,  and  leaned  forward  on 
his  staff  in  an  attitude  of  rapt  attention;  the  innocent 
looks  «f  the  choir-boys,  amongst  whom  was  Dicky  Stev- 
ens, fourth  in  descent  from  Granfer,  and  whom  Lilian 
had  delivered  from  the  tyranny  of  the  rod ;  and  Mr.  Mait- 
land's  reverend  aspect,  as  he  bent  his  silvered  head  and 
listened  to  Cyril's  pure  voice. 

But  the  moment  which  lingered  in  his  heart's  memory 
till  his  dying  day  was  that  in  which  he  knelt  with  Marion 
and  Lilian  and  the  villagers  at  the  altar,  and  received  the 


$4  THE  SILENCE  Off  DEAN  MA1TLAND. 

holy  symbols  from  Cyril's  own  consecrated  hands.  He 
never  forgot  Cyril's  pale,  saint-like  features  and  white- 
stoled  form,  the  crimson  from  a  martyr's  robe  in  the 
south  chancel  window  staining  in  a  long  bar  the  priest's 
breast  and  hands  and  the  very  chalice  he  held. 

"I  was  so  glad,"  Lilian  said,  when  they  were  walking 
home  together,  Marion  having  stopped  to  speak  to  some 
one,  "to  see  you  there,  Henry,  because  Cyril  is  often 
troubled  about  your  daring  speculations." 

"Your  father  never  fails  to  still  my  doubts,  Lilian," 
he  replied.  "There  is  that  in  his  plain,  unpretending 
sermons  which  carries  conviction  straight  into  one's  heart 
Sermons,  as  a  rule,  simply  bore  me;  but  Mr.  Maitland's — 
Well,  you  know  he  always  was  my  beau  ideal  of  a  parish 
priest." 

Lilian's  face  kindled.  "You  are  the  only  person  who 
really  appreciates  my  father,"  she  replied.  "Even  Cyril 
does  not  quite  know  what  gifts  he  has  buried  in  this  tiny 
rustic  place,  and  willingly  and  consciously  buried." 

"I  honor  his  intellect,  but  still  more  his  heart,  which 
speaks  not  only  in  his  studiously  plain  sermons,  but  even 
more  in  his  life.  Cyril  could  take  no  better  model." 

"True;  yet  we  all  think  Cyril  destined  to  something 
higher,"  replied  Lilian. 

"By  the  way,  Henry,"  said  Cyril  at  luncheon,  "I  took 
your  overcoat  by  mistake  this  morning.  I  hope  it  didn't 
put  you  out  much ;  my  things  are  all  too  small  for  you." 

"That  fellow  is  always  appropriating  my  property,  and 
I  am  too  big  to  retaliate,"  growled  Everard,  who  had  for- 
gotten all  about  the  tight  overcoat  of  the  morning. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Cywil,"  broke  in  Lennie,  "wasn't  Ingwam 
Swaynestone  in  a  wage  with  you  for  not  pweaching  this 
morning!  He  came  to  church  on  purpose,  and' he  does 
hate  going  to  church  in  the  winter,  he  says,  because  the 
cold  nips  the  girls'  noses  and  makes  them  look  so  ugly." 

"He  doesn't  mean  that  nonsense,  Lennie,"  said  Mr. 
Maitland,  laughing  gently.  "He  pays  his  rector  a  fine 
compliment,  to  say  the  least  of  it,"  he  added. 

Cyril,  who  was  by  no  means  making  up  for  his  morn- 
mg  fast,  looked  as  if  he  thought  Ingram  was  more  likely 
to  be  interested  in  the  color  of  girls'  noses  than  the  qual- 
ity of  any  sermons.  Then  he  learned  how  Ingram  had 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  85 


called  with  offers  of  guns  and  horses  to  Everard  and 
self,  and  had  been  at  play  with  Winnie,  who  was  now  in 
dire  disgrace  and  condemned  to  go  without  pudding,  in 
consequence  of  having  made  Ingram's  nose  bleed. 

"Oh,  really,  mother!"  he  exclaimed,  stroking  the 
bright  curls  brushing  his  arms,  "isn't  that  rather  hard? 
Winnie  did  not  mean  it;  it  might  have  been  her  nose. 
Do  you  think  Ingram  will  go  without  pudding,  Win? 
Let  her  off,  mother.  I  never  saw  a  little  girl  behave  bet- 
ter in  church." 

Whereupon  Winnie  was  respited,  after  many  comments 
from  her  elders  on  her  rough  ways  and  romping  habits 
and  constant  breakages,  which  it  appeared,  were  a  source 
of  perennial  disgrace  to  the  little  girl. 

Cyril  had  very  tender  ways  with  children,  and  was  al- 
most as  sorry  for  hurt  things  as  Lilian.  That  very 
afternoon  a  child  stumbled  and  fell  on  the  way  to  church, 
and  Everard  saw  him  slip  aside  in  his  long  cassock,  and 
pick  up  the  howling,  dust-covered  urchin  with  some 
merry,  tender  observation,  wipe  away  the  tears  and  blood 
with  his  own  spotless  handkerchief  before  Wax  had  time 
to  bring  out  a  denunciation  on  the  brat's  heedlessness, 
and  comfort  him  finally  with  pence,  though  the  parson's 
bell  had  rung,  and  Mrs.  Wax  had  come  to  the  end  of  her 
voluntary  on  the  harmonium,  and  began  over  again  in 
despair. 

The  morning  congregation  had  received  some  addi- 
tions, to-wit,  those  lazy  Sabbatarians  who  kept  their  day 
of  rest  so  literally  as  to  get  up  too  late  to  go  to  church  in 
the  morning,  those  mothers  too  fatigued  by  performing 
the  family  toilets  to  perform  their  own,  and  those  who 
cooked  the  Sunday  dinners  and  minded  the  babies,  Ihe 
majority  of  which  latter  accompanied  their  parents  to  af- 
ternoon service.  It  was  pleasant,  too,  to  observe  that  In- 
gram Swaynestone's  piety  had  conquered  his  pain  at  the 
eclipse  of  feminine  beauty,  and  that  he  helped  to  swell  the 
little  crowd. 

When  Cyril  ascended  the  pulpit,  he  looked  round  the 
dim  church  with  an  anxious,  searching  gaze,  and  Lilian 
observed  that  his  eye  rested  with  apprehension  on  the 
Lee's  pew,  and  he  appeared  relieved  when  he  saw  Mrs. 
Lee  standing  there  alone.  Then  he  glanced  in  the  direo 


86  THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAX  MAITLAND. 

tion  of  the  Swaynestone  servant's  pew,  where  Ben  Lee 
sat,  glum  and  downcast,  and  Judkins,  with  a  haggard 
look,  held  his  hymn  book  before  his  face.  They  were 
singing,  "Hark,  the  herald  angels,"  Job  Stubbs  and 
Dickie  Stevens  bringing  out  the  treble  with  a  will  and  the 
basses  bearing  their  parts  manfully. 

Cyril  distinguished  all  the  voices — those  of  Lilian  and 
Everard,  Marion  and  the  children,  Sir  Lionel  and  his 
daughters,  the  rectory  maids,  the  smock-frocks,  Tom  and 
Jim  Hale,  Baines,  the  tailor,  who  was  only  an  occasional 
church-goer,  and  loved  to  air  his  bass  occasionally  in 
orthodox  ears — he  heard  even  Granfer's  own  tremulous 
quaver,  which  had  been  a  tenor  of  local  celebrity,  and  a 
crowd  of  young  memories  rushed  over  him.  He  clutched 
the  edge  of  the  pulpit,  regardless  of  the  holly  wreath 
which  encircled  it,  and  pricked  his  fingers,  and  when  the 
last  notes  of  "Herald  angels"  died  away  in  the  final  quaver 
of  an  old  woman  half  a  bar  behind,  was  silent  for  a  few 
moments. 

At  last  he  recovered  himself  and  gave  out  his  text — 
"Keep  innocency,  and  take  heed  to  the  thing  that  is 
right,  for  that  shall  bring  a  man  peace  at  the  last." 

He  felt  them  all  gazing  up  at  him — Lennie  and  Winnie, 
with  their  innocent  eyes  and  mouths  wide  open  to  hear 
"Cywil  pweach;"  his  mother,  who  seldom  ventured  to 
church;  Farmer  Long  and  his  family;  the  wrell-kno\vn 
villagers;  Granfer,  with  his  head  on  one  side,  like  an  old 
bird,  the  better  to  hear  him;  Ben  Lee — yes,  Ben  Lee  was 
looking;  his  father  in  the  chancel  was  looking  also. 

Cyril  turned  pale ;  Marion  caught  her  breath,  but  was 
soon  quieted  by  the  clear,  .pure  notes  of  the  young  preach- 
er's voice.  He  could  not  but  pause,  he  said,  before  that 
congregation,  and  question  himself  deeply  and  sternly 
before  he  presumed  to  address  them.  They  had  seen 
him  grow  up  among  them.  Many  were  his  elders,  had 
held  him  in  their  arms,  chidden  the  faults  of  his  boyhood, 
taught  him,  cared  for  him ;  many  had  been  his  playmates 
and  companions,  known  his  weaknesses,  shared,  per- 
chance, in  his  escapades.  How  should  he  speak  to  them? 

Everard  disapproved  of  these  personal  remarks;  and 
yet,  when  he  heard  the  silver  tones  of  Cyril's  voice,  his 
easy  flowing  sentences,  and  the  delicacy  of  his  allusions, 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  87 

he  could  not  but  be  charmed.  The  fact  was,  as  he  re- 
flected, that  Cyril  could  do  what  no  other  man  might, 
and  still  charm.  His  very  faults  and  weaknesses  were, 
in  a  manner,  endearing. 

He  felt  it,  nevertheless,  a  great  privilege,  he  continued, 
to  be  placed  there,  and  he  asked  of  their  patience  to  fiear 
him,  for  the  sake  of  his  office.  Then,  referring  to  his 
manuscript,  he  briefly  touched  upon  the  st<5ry  of  the  mar- 
tyred innocents  and  its  lessons;  and  not  till  then  did  the 
profound  snore  of  William  Grove  and  other  accustomed 
sleepers  arise.  Every  creature  had  kept  awake  during 
the  unaccustomed  prologue,  and,  indeed,  many  of  the 
habitual  sleepers  were  still  awake,  considering  it  only  fair 
to  Air.  Cyril.  Then  the  preacher  spoke  of  the  beaut}' 
of  innocence,  and  his  manner,  hitherto  so  quiet,  changed, 
and  became  more  and  more  impassioned,  till  some  of  the 
sleepers  woke  and  gazed  about  them  with  dazed  wonder, 
as  the  tones  of  that  clarion  voice  besought  them  all  to 
keep  innocency,  that  pearl  beyond  all  price,  that  one 
costly  treasure  without  which  there  was  no  light  in  the 
summer  sun,  nor  any  joy  in  youth  and  spring-time.  Then 
he  painted  the  tortures  of  a  guilty  conscience,  the  agony 
beyond  all  agonies,  with  such  power  and  passion,  and 
such  a  richness  of  poetic  diction  and  picturesque  imagery, 
that  many  a  man  trembled,  some  women  sobbed,  and 
poor  Ben  Lee  uttered  a  stifled  groan. 

Everard  grew  uncomfortable.  He  began  to  fear  some 
unseemly  hysteric  excitement  in  the  little  congregation, 
and  was  distressed  to  find  Marion  and  Mrs.  Maitland  cry- 
ing without  reserve.  Lilian's  eyes  were  moist,  but  she 
did  not  cry ;  she  was  pale  with  a  reflection  of  Cyril's  white 
passion.  Mr.  Maitland  covered  his  face  with  his  sur- 
plice. He,  too,  was  uneasy,  and  more  affected  than  he 
liked  to  acknowledge  to  himself;  yet  he  hoped  that 
Alma's  betrayer  might  be  present  and  have  his  heart 
touched.  The  dusk  was  falling  fast  in  the  dim,  deep- 
shadowed  building;  two  or  three  sparks  of  light  glowed 
among  the  white  robes  of  the  choir,  and  up  among  the 
dark  arches  Cyril's  face  showed  haggard  and  agonized  in 
the  little  aisle  of  light  made  by  the  two  pale  tapers  on 
each  side  of  him  in  the  darkness. 

Long  did  the  little  congregation  remember  that  scene : 


88  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

the  hush  of  attention,  broken  only  by  an  occasional  sob 
from  some  woman — for  most  of  the  sleepers  were  awake 
now,  and  dimly  conscious  of  the  unaccustomed  passion 
breaking  the  drowsy  air  around  them — the  great  growing 
shadows  in  the  fast-darkening  church;  the  mass  of  awe- 
struck faces  pale  in  the  gray  gloom;  the  rosy  gleams  of 
the  scattered  tapers  on  the  choristers'  surplices;  and  up 
above  them,  from  the  heart  of  the  mysterious  darkness,, 
the  one  beautiful,  impassioned  face  in  the  lonely  radiance 
and  the  mighty  musical  voice  pealing  forth  the  unutter- 
able anguish  of  sin;  and  the  light  which  subsequent 
events  threw  upon  it  only  rendered  it  the  more  impres- 
sive. 

"It  is  true,  indeed,"  said  the  preacher,  suddenly  easing 
the  intolerable  tension  of  his  passion,  and  speaking  in 
calmer  tones,  "that  what  a  holy  writer  has  called  'the 
princely  heart  of  innocence/  may  be  regained  after  long 
anguish  of  penitence  and  prayer,  but  the  consequences  oi 
sin  roll  on  in  ever-growing  echoes,  terrible  with  the  thun- 
der of  everlasting  doom:  the  contrite  heart  is  utterly 
broken,  and  the  life  forever  saddened  and  marred.  Inno- 
cence once  lost,  my  brethren,  the  old  careless  joy  of  youth 
never  returns.  Oh,  thou,  whosoever  thou  be,  man, 
woman,  or  even  child;  thou  who  hast  once  stained  thy 
soul  with  deadly  sin,  'not  poppy  nor  mandragora,  nor  all 
the  drowsy  syrups  of  the  world,  shall  ever  medicine  thee 
to  that  sweet  sleep  which  thou  ow'dst  yesterday.' 

"Yet  despair  not,  beloved  brethren,"  he  added,  with 
flutelike  softness,  for  his  voice  had  again  risen  in  ago- 
nized intensity;  "there  is  forgiveness  and  healing  for  all. 
But  oh!  keep  innocency,  keep  innocency;  guard  and 
treasure  that  inestimable,  irrecoverable  possession,  that 
pure,  perennial  source  of  joyous  days  and  peaceful  nights, 
and  take  heed,  take  watchful  heed,  of  the  thing  that  is 
right.  Keep  innocency,  oh,  little  children  sitting  here 
in  the  holy  church  this  evening,  beneath  the  eyes  of 
those  who  love  and  guard  you — you  whose  souls  are  yet 
fresh  with  the  dew  of  baptism,  keep,  oh,  keep  your  inno- 
cency! Keep  it,  youths  and  children,  who  wear  the  chor- 
ister's white  robe!  Keep  innocency,  young  men  and 
maidens,  full  of  heart  and  hope;  keep  this  one  pearl,  I 
pray  you,  for  there  is  no  joy  without  it!  And  you,  men 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  89 

and  women  of  mature  years,  strong  to  labor  and  bowed 
with  cares  and  toils  innumerable — you  who,  in  the  hurry 
of  life's  hot  noon,  have  scarce  time  to  think  of  heaven, 
with  its  white  robes  and  peace,  yet  see  that  you  keep  in- 
nocency  through  all!  And  you,  standing  amid  the  long 
golden  light  of  life's  evening,  aged  men  and  women  who 
wear  the  honored  crown  of  white  hairs,  watch  still,  and 
see  that  you  guard  your  priceless  treasure  even  to  the  last. 
Keep  innocency,  I  conjure  you,  for  that  shall  bring  a  man 
peace  at  the  last!  Peace,  peace,"  he  repeated,  with  a 
yearning  intensity  that  culminated  in  a  deep,  hard  sob, 
"peace!" 

He  paused  and  there  was  a  dense  silence  for  some  sec- 
onds, and  Everard  saw  that  the  blue  brilliancy  of  his 
eyes  was  blurred  with  tears;  while  Sir  Lionel  and  Ingram 
experienced  a  sense  of  profound  relief  in  the  hope  that 
the  too-exciting  sermon  was  at  an  end.  The  congrega- 
tion rose  joyously  to  their  feet,  eased  of  a  strain  that  was 
becoming  intolerable. 

When  Cyril  had  left  the  pulpit,  his  father  pronounced 
the  benediction  on  the  kneeling  crowd  in  his  calm,  sweet 
tones,  so  restful  after  the  storm  and  passion  of  the  young 
preacher's  richly  compassioned  voice.  But  the  blessing  did 
not  reach  Cyril's  distracted  soul.  Taking  advantage  of 
the  shadows  when  he  reached  his  place  in  the  chancel,  he 
glided  swiftly  behind  the  pillars,  like  some  hurt  spirit 
fleeing  from  the  benison  that  would  heal  it,  till  he 
reached  the  vestry,  where  he  threw  himself  in  a  chair  be- 
hind a  screen,  and  covered  his  face.  When  Mr.  Mait- 
land  in  due  time  followed  the  choir  thither,  he  did  not  at 
first  observe  the  silent,  ghostly  figure  in  the  shadow;  and 
then  becoming  aware  of  him,  he  left  him  to  himself  till 
the  choristers  were  gone,  thinking  that  he  was  praying. 
But  on  approaching  nearer,  he  was  startled  to  hear 
strong  sobs  issue  from  the  veiled  figure. 

"My  dear  boy,"  he  remonstrated,  "this  will  never  do. 
Too  much  excitement  is  unwholesome  both  for  priest  and 
people.  Come,  master  yourself,  dear  lad.  You  are  un- 
well ;  this  fasting  is  not  wise.  Henry  was  right." 

"Oh,  father,"  sobbed  Cyril,  "it  is  not  the  fasting!  Oh, 
shut  the  door,  and  let  us  be  alone,  and  let  me  tell  you  all 
—all!" 


go 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND 


"Come,  pome,"  said  the  gentle  old  man;  "calm  your- 
self, and  tell  me  whatever  you  like  later.  At  present  we 
are  both  worn  out,  and  need  change  of  thought.  You 
have  a  great  gift,  dear  fellow,  and  I  trust  your  words 
have  struck  home  to  at  least  one  conscience — 

"They  have — oh,  they  have  indeed!"  repeated  Cyril, 
with  increasing  agitation;  "and  that  miserable  conscience 
— Oh,  father,  father!  how  can  I  tell  you — ?'' 

"Hush!  hush!  This  is  hysteria,  as  Everard  predicted. 
Say  no  more;  I  insist  upon  your  silence.  Remember 
W7here  we  are!  Drink  this  water.  Stay!  I  will  call 
Henry ;''  and  Mr.  Maitland  went  quickly  into  the  church, 
where  Everard  was  yet  lingering  with  Lilian,  who  always 
had  various  errands  connected  with  the  parish  to  transact 
in  the  porch,  and  beckoned  him  to  the  vestry. 

Cyril  did  not  resist  his  father's  will  any  more,  but  sank 
back  with  a  moan,  half  of  anguish,  half  of  relief,  and  lis- 
tened meekly  to  the  rough  kindliness  of  Everard,  and  the 
gentle  remonstrances  of  his  father. 

"This  is  a  pretty  scene,  Mr.  Maitland,"  observed  Ever- 
ard, on  entering  the  vestry.  "111?  Of  course  he  is  ill, 
after  exciting  himself  on  an  empty  stomach!  The  end 
of  such  goings-on  as  these,  my  friend,  is  Bedlam.  Take 
this  brandy,  and  then  go  quietly  home  and  get  a  good 
sleep,  and  let  us  have  no  more  of  this  nonsense,  for  good- 
ness' sake.'' 

So  Cyril  did  as  they  bid  him,  and  held  his  peace.  Had 
he  but  acted  on  his  heart's  impulse,  and  spoken  out  then 
as  he  wished,  he  would  have  produced  sorrow  and  dismay 
indeed,  but  the  long,  lingering  tragedy  which  was  to  in- 
volve so  many  lives  would  have  been  forever  averted. 

Once,  perhaps,  in  each  crisis  of  our  lives,  our  guardian 
angel  stands  before  us  with  his  hands  full  of  golden  oppor- 
tunity, which,  if  we  grasp,  it  is  well  with  us ;  but  woe  to  us 
if  we  turn  our  backs  sullenly  on  our  gentle  visitor,  and 
scorn  his  celestial  gift!  Never  again  is  the  gracious  treas- 
ure offered,  and  the  favorable  moment  returns  no  more. 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  gt 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"Ay,  you  med  all  mark  my  words!"  said  Granfer, 
looking  solemnly  around  from  under  the  shadow  of  his 
bushy  gray  eyebrows.  "I've  a  zaid  it,  and  I'll  zay  it 
agen — ay,  that  I  'ool,  let  they  go  agen  it  as  may!  You 
med  all  mark  my  words,  I  zay  Queen  Victoree'll  make 
he  a  bishop  avore  she's  done  wi'  'un." 

"Ay,"  chorused  the  listening  group,  who  were  stand- 
ing around  the  village  oracle  in  the  churchyard,  looking 
phantom-like  in  the  pale  blending  of  sunset  and  moon- 
rise;  and  then  there  was  a  thoughtful  pause,  during  which 
Granfer's  shrewd  gray  eyes  scrutinized  each  face  with  an 
air  of  challenge. 

"Ter'ble  vine  praiching,  zure-ly,"  observed  Hale,  the 
wheelwright. 

"Vine!  you  med  well  zay  that,"  rejoined  Granfer, 
sternly.  "I  tell  'ee  all,  there  never  was  praiching  that 
vine  in  all  Malbourne  land  avore!  Ay,  I've  zaid  it,  and 
I'll  zay  it  agen !'' 

"Made  me  sweat,  *ee  did,"  observed  Straun,  the  black- 
smith, whose  Sunday  appearance  was  a  caricature  on  his 
burly  working-day  presentment;  for  broadcloth  of  Baine's 
rough  fashioning  now  hid  the  magnificent  muscular  arms 
and  bare  neck;  a  tall  hat,  too  small  in  the  head,  replaced 
the  careless,  smoke-browned  cap  of  every  day;  and  the 
washing  and  shaving  to  which  his  face  had  been  sub- 
jected gave  it  an  almost  unnatural  pallor. 

"Ye  med  well  sweat,  Jarge  Straun,  when  you  thinks 
On  yer  zins,"  reflected  Granfer,  piously. 

'"Twas  ter'ble  vine;  but  darned  if  I  knows  what  'twas 
all  about!"  said  Willian  Grove,  scratching  his  curly  head 
with  some  perplexity. 

"Ah!  Mr.  Cyril,  he  have  a  dale  too  much  laming  for 
the  likes  o'  you,  Willum,"  returned  Granfer,  graciously 
condescending  to  Williams'  weak  intellect;  "  let  he 
alone  for  that.  Why,  Lard  love  'ee,  Willum,  I  couldn't 
make  out  more'n  a  quarter  on't  mezelf,  that  I  couldn't 
I  tell  'ee  1  A  vast  o'  laming  in  that  lad's  head." 


ga  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAJTLAND. 

"Ay,  and  some  on  it  was  poetry;  I  yerd  the  jingle  of  it," 
said  sailor  Jim. 

"Master,  now,"  continued  Granfer,  settling  himself 
more  comfortably  against  a  tombstone,  and  leaning  for- 
ward on  his  stick — "Lard  a'  massey,  any  vool  med  under- 
stand he!  He  spakes  in  his  discoorses  jest  as 
though  he  was  a  zitting  in  front  of  vire  atop  of  a  cricket, 
and  a  zaying,  'Well,  Granfer,and  how  be  the  taaties  acorn- 
ing  up?'  or  'Granfer,  think  o'  yer  zins  avore  you  blaimes 
other  volk.'  Ay,  that's  how  he  spakes,  bless  'un!  He 
don't  know  no  better,  he  don't.  Can't  spake  no  grander 
than  the  Lard  have  give  'un  grace  to." 

"Master's  a  good  man,"  said  Straun,  defiantly.  "He've 
a  done  his  duty  by  we  this  thirty  year." 

"Ay,  he's  well  enough,  master  is,"  continued  Granfer, 
in  a  tolerant  manner;  "I  never  had  no  vault  to  vind  wi' 
he,  bless  'un!  A  vine  vamily  he've  had,  too!  He've  a 
done  so  well  as  he  could;  but  a  never  was  no  praicher  to 
spake  on,  I  tell  'ee." 

"Ter'ble  pretty  what  Mr.  Cyril  said  about  preaching  to 
them  as  knowed  him  a  boy,"  said  Tome  Hale.  "Them 
esskypades,  now,"  he  added,  fondly,  as  he  caressed  his 
mustache  and  struck  one  of  his  martial  attitudes. 

"What's  a  esskypade,  Granfer?"  inquired  a  smock- 
frock. 

"A  esskypade,"  returned  Granfer,  slowly  and  thought- 
fully— "a  esskypade,  zo  to  zay,  is,  in  a  way  o'  spaking, 
what  you  med  call  a  zet-to — a  zart  of  a  scrimmage  like ;" 
and  he  fixed  his  glittering  eye  fiercely,  yet  half  doubt- 
fully, on  Tom  Hale's  face,  as  much  as  to  challenge  him 
to  deny  it. 

"Just  so,"  responded  Tom.  "I  said  to  meself,  I  said, 
'Mr.  Cyril  is  thinking  of  the  set-to  we  had  together  in 
father's  yard  that  Saturday  afternoon;  that's  what  he 
means  by  his  esskypades.' " 

"Ay,  and  you  licked  him  well,"  added  Jim,  eagerly; 
"that  was  summat  like  a  fight,  Tom." 

"Master  Cyril  had  to  be  carried  home,  and  kep'  his  bed 
for  a  week;  and  Tom,  he 'couldn't  see  out  of  his  eyes  next 
day,"  commented  the  elder  Hale,  with  pride  in  his 
brother's  prowess. 


SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


93 


"Ay,  you  dreshed  'un,  zure  enough,  Tom,"  commented 
Granfer,  graciously. 

"He  took  a  deal  of  licking,  and  hit  out  like  a  mart," 
said  the  modest  warior,  who  loved  Cyril  with  the  pro- 
found affection  inspired  only  by  a  vanquished  foe. 

Tom  had  fought  sterner  battles  since.  He  had  been 
through  the  Indian  Mutiny  campaign,  and  known  the 
grim  realties  of  Lucknow;  but  his  heart  still  glowed,  as 
he  saw  before  him,  in  his  mind's  eye,  the  prostrate  form 
of  Cyril  on  the  grass  among  the  timber  of  the  wheel- 
wright's yard — poor,  vanquished  Cyril,  slighter,  though 
older,  than  himself,  with  his  little  shirt  torn  and  blood- 
stained— and  heard  the  applause  of  his  comrades  gathered 
to  watch  the  fray. 

"Well,  I  minds  ''un,  a  little  lad,  chivying  Grandfer's 
wuld  sow  round  meadow,"  struck  in  Stevens,  who  had 
now  completed  all  his  duties  in  the  church  and  locked 
the  door,  the  great  key  of  which  he  carried  in  his  hand. 

"A  vine,  peart  buoy  as  ever  I  zee,"  reflected  Granfer, 
"and  wanted  zo  much  stick  as  any  on  'em.  I've  a 
smacked  'un  mezelf,"  added  Granfer,  with  great  dignity 
and  importance;  "ay,  and  I  smacked  'un  well,  I  did!" 
repeated  Granfer  with  relish. 

"You  was  allays  a  good  'un  to  smack,  Granfer,"  ob- 
served his  grandson,  the  clerk,  with  tender  reminiscences 
of  Granfer's  operation  on  his  own  person. 

"Whatever  I  done,  I  went  through  wi'  't,"  returned 
the  old  man,  complacently  digesting  this  tribute  to  his 
prowess.  "Ay,  I've  a  smacked  'un  mezelf,  and  I  smacked 
'un  well,  I  did,"  he  repeated,  with  ever-growing  import- 
ance. 

"Come  along  home!"  said  Stevens,  who  was  waiting  to 
lock  the  lich-gate.  "'You  bain't  old  enough  to  bide  in 
churchyard  for  good,  Granfer." 

"Ah !  I  bain't  a-gwine  underground  this  ten  year  yet," 
returned  Granfer,  shaking  his  head,  and  slowly  rising 
from  his  tombstone  in  the  blue  moonlight,  his  breath 
showing  smoke-like  on  the  keen  air,  and  his  wrinkled 
hands  numbed  doubly  by  age  and  the  winter  night.  "I 
bain't  a-gwine  yet,"  he  muttered  to  himself;  while  the 
group  broke  up  in  slow,  rustic  fashion,  and  they  all 


94 


TEE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND 


trudged  off,  Tom  leading  the  way,  erect  and  martial, 
airily  swinging  his  little  cane,  and  stepping  with  a  firm, 
even  stride;  Jim  rolling  along  with  a  wide,  swaying  gait, 
as  if  there  were  an  earthquake,  and  the  churchyard 
ground  were  heaving  and  surging  around  him ;  the  rustics 
trampling  heavily  after,  with  a  stolid,  forceful  step,  as  if 
the  ground  beneath  them  were  a  stubborn  enemy,  to  be 
mastered  only  by  continued  blows;  and  soon  the  gray 
church  stood  silent  and  deserted  in  the  frosty  moonlight, 
till  the  clock  in  the  belfry  pealed  out  five  mellow  strokes 
above  the  quiet,  unheeding  dead. 

At  that  hour  Ben  Lee  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  his 
stables  and  going  home  to  tea.  Judkins  and  he  were 
kindling  their  pipes  at  the  harness-room  fire,  each  with  a 
face  of  sullen  gloom. 

"It  wasn't  so  much  what  he  said,"  observed  Judkins, 
"'twas  how  he  said  it  made  them  all  cry.  He  seemed 
kind  of  heartbroken  about  it,  as  though  somebody  belong- 
ing to  him,  some  friend  like,  had  done  wrong. 

"Do  you  think  he  was  thinking  of  my  poor  girl?"  asked 
Ben,  quickly;  and  Judkins  nodded  assent. 

"He  always  had  a  kind  heart,  had  Mr.  Cyril,  and  he 
thought  a  deal  of  Alma,"  continued  Lee;  "lent  her  good 
books  and  that." 

"There  was  one  in  the  church  as  wasn't  upset,  and 
looked  as  quiet  as  a  whetstone  all  through — that  damned 
doctor!'  said  the  young  man,  fiercely. 

"Doctor  Everard?     You  don't  think,  Charles — " 

"Haven't  I  seen  him  walking  in  the  wood  with  her?'' 
he  interrupted,  with  imprecations.  "Why  did  he  come?' 
sneaking  into  your  house,  doctoring  your  wife  last  spring, 
day  after  day  without  fail,  and  always  something  to  say 
to  Alma  afterward  in  another  room?  Answer  me  that, 
Ben  Lee!'' 

The  man  was  half  stunned.  "I'd  break  every  bone  in 
his  cursed  body,"  he  burst  out,  purple  with  passion,  "if  I 
thought  that!  And  the  good  he  done  my  wife,  too,  and 
I  that  blind!" 

"Blind  you  were,  Ben  Lee,  and  blind  was  everybody  else. 
But  I  watched.  I've  seen  them  shake  hands  at  the  gate, 
and  she  giving  of  him  flowers,  damn  him!  I've  seen 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAV  MAITLA.ND. 


95 


them  in  the  wood  there,  standing  together,  and  he  show- 
ing of  her  things  through  that  glass  of  his  that  makes 
things  bigger  than  they  ought  to  be.  Wait  till  I  catch 
him,  Ben,  that's  all!  And  he  sitting  through  the  sermon, 
and  everybody  crying,  and  even  Mr.  Ingram  blowing 
his  nose;  he  sitting  as  scornful  and  cold  as  any 
devil.  There's  no  conscience  in  the  likes  of  him!" 

"Charles,"  cried  Ben,  suddenly  clutching  the  young 
man's  arm  with  a  grip  that  brought  the  blood  -to  his  face, 
"I'll  kill  him!" 

Ben  was  purple,  and  quivering  from  head  to  foot,  and 
Judkin's  passionate  anger  sank  within  him  at  the  sight. 

"Hush,  Ben,  hush!"  he  said;  "don't  you  do  nothing 
rash.  Killing's  murder,  Ben.  And  that  will  do  her  no 
good.  No,  No;  I'll  thrash  him,  and  you  shall  thrash  him, 
and  he  shall  be  brought  to  book,  sure  enough;  that's  only 
justice." 

Poor  Ben  dashed  away  his  pipe,  covered  his  face  with 
his  coat-cuff,  and  broke  out  crying. 

"Lord  ha'  mercy!"  cried  the  young  groom,  crying 
himself.  "You  do  take  on,  Ben.  Come,  come,  cheer 
up,  man.  Better  days'll  come,  and  you  may  see  her  mar- 
ried and  happy  yet.  Come  on  home,  Ben,  come." 

And  he  drew  him  out  into  the  solemn  quiet  of  the  win- 
ter moonlight,  and  took  him  across  the  park  and  the 
meadow,  and  wished  him  good-night  at  the  door  of  his 
sorrowful  home.  "And  mind  you,  Ben,  don't  you  be  hard 
on  her,"  he  said  at  parting. 

"If  Ben  comes  across  him,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  as 
he  strolled  moodily  up  and  down  the  high-road,  whence 
he  could  see  the  Temple  white  in  the  moonlight,  with  its 
one  window  faintly  aglow,  "he'll  do  for  him.  Ben's  hot, 
and  he'll  do  for  him,  as  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs."  Then  he 
vowed  to  himself  that  he  would  wreak  his  own  revenge 
first,  and,  if  possible,  save  Ben  from  yielding  to  his  own 
passionate  nature.  "I'll  track  him  down  like  a  hound!" 
he  muttered,  striking  fiercely  at  the  frosted  hedgerow  with 
the  light  whip  he  carried. 

Everard,  in  the  meantime,  was  serenely  happy  in  the 
drawing-room  at  Malbourne,  unconscious  that  he  had  an 
enemy  in  the  world,  much  less  that  men  were  scheming 


g6  THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 

against  his  honor  and  his  life.  Nay,  he  did  not  even 
dream  that  he  had  had  so  much  as  a  detractor;  he  loved 
his  fellows,  and  was  at  peace  with  mankind. 

The  family  were  gathered  in  the  drawing-room  in 
pleasant  Sunday  idleness,  save  Mr.  Maitland,  who  was 
visiting  a  sick  parishioner.  Cyril  and  Marion  were  side  by 
side  on  a  remote  sofa,  dreamily  happy  in  each  other's 
presence;  Henry  had  mounted  his  microscope  *  within 
reach  of  Mrs.  Maitland,  and  was  displaying  its  wonders  in 
calm  happiness  for  her  and  Lilian.  Mark  Antony,  after 
careful  and  minute  inspection  of  every  detail  of  the 
strange  apparatus,  had  decided  that  it  was  harmless, 
though  frivolous,  and  expressed  this  decision  by  deep 
contented  purrs  and  an  adjournment  to  Cyril's  knee, 
where  he  saw  a  prospect  of  long  continuation  and  peace; 
and  Lennie  and  Winnie  occupied  the  hearth-rug,  and 
divided  their  attention  between  the  dogs  and  the  micro- 
scope. 

When  Lilian  bent  over  the  tube,  with  the  strong  light 
of  the  lamp  touching  her  animated  face,  and  her  dress 
rustling  against  him,  Henry  thought  he  had  never  been 
so  happy  in  his  life.  Now  and  again  some  little  unex- 
pected incident,  some  glance  or  tone,  revealed  to  him  the 
delicious  truth  that  they  loved  each  other.  No  one  else 
suspected  that  any  change  had  come  over  the  fraternal 
relations  of  a  life-time ;  they  possessed  this  young  happi- 
ness as  a  secret,  sacred  treasure,  and  feared  the  moment 
when  it  must  be  revealed  to  the  world.  Everard  was 
loath  to  part  even  with  the  sweet  anguish  of  doubt  which 
crossed  his  heaven  from  time  to  time ;  it  was  so  delightful 
to  watch  and  question  every  word  and  glance  and  gesture 
of  Lilian's,  and  play  upon  them  a  perpetual  daisy  game 
— "she  loves  me,  she  loves  me  not,  she  loves  me."  Some 
deep  instinct  told  him  that  never  in  all  his  life  would  he 
again  taste  such  happiness  as  this  blessed  dawn  of  love 
yielded  him.  As  for  Lilian,  her  manner  took  a  little  shy- 
ness occasionally  in  the  strange  fear  which  is  the  shadow  t 
of  unspeakable  joy. 

Soon  the  domestic  quiet  was  broken,  but  not  troubled, 
by  the  irruption  of  Stanley  and  Lyster  Garrett,  the  two 
sons  of  Northover,  who  liked  to  lounge  away  a  Sunday 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


97 


evening  at  the  Rectory,  and  there  was  much  discussion  of 
the  entertainment  to  be  given  the  next  night  to  the  vil- 
lagers; and  then  the  girl  Garretts  were  brought  across 
the  park  to  assist  in  the  little  parliament,  and  kept  to 
share  the  informal  supper  which  was  a  Sunday  feature  at 
Malbourne. 

During  supper  a  note  arrived  from  Swaynestone,  bid- 
ding Everard  come  to  luncheon  next  day  to  meet  the 
great  Professor  Hamlyn,  who  had  seen  some  paper  of 
Everard's  in  a  scientific  journal,  and  expressed  a  wish  to 
see  the  writer.  This  was  a  great  pleasure  to  Everard, 
and  a  little  responsive  light  in  Lilian's  face  told  him  that 
she  realized  what  making  this  man's  acquaintance  meant 
to  him. 

"The  luncheon  was  a  great  success,"  Everard  observed, 
on  his  return  to  the  Rectory  in  the  afternoon  next  day. 
•"The  great  man  was  most  gracious ;  he  did  me  the  honor 
of  contradicting  me  nine  times.  Sir  Lionel,  in  his  gentle 
way,  was  a  little  horrified  at  his  lion's  roar,  but  saw  that 
I  was  specially  honored  in  being  selected  for  the  royal 
beast's  reflection." 

He  went  on  to  tell  how  the  great  writer,  who  lived  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  was  entertaining  the  professor, 
had  been  present,  and  had  been  less  overbearing  in  man- 
ner and  milder  in  language  than  usual.  His  hair  had, 
however,  evidently  not  been  brushed.  He  was  question- 
ing Sir  Lionel  about  Cyril's  sermon,  in  which  he  was 
interested,  since  he  had  a  slight  acquaintance  with  the 
Maitlands,  and  had  already  detected  Cyril's  bright  parts. 
He  heard  of  the  sermon  through  his  brother,  who  had 
been  taking  a  country  stroll  the  previous  afternoon,  and 
had  sauntered  unnoticed  into  the  church,  just  at  the 
beginning  of  the  sermon,  and  returned  home  with  the 
intelligence  that  a  young  genius  had  arisen  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, with  a  voice,  manner,  and  power  unequalled  in 
his  experience. 

Ingram  Swaynestone,  who  had  accompanied  Everard 
back  to  Malbourne,  wondered  that  Cyril  should  stare 
abstractedly  at  the  fire  during  this  recital,  as  if  it  had  no 
interest  for  him,  and  made  some  remark  to  him  expressive 
of  his  own  personal  appreciation  of  the  sermon. 


98  THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

"My  good  fellow,"  returned  Cyril,  facing  about,  and 
speaking  in  his  easy  genial  fashion,  "do  you  suppose 
that  I  don't  know  that  I  have  the  'gift  of  the  gab,'  as 
Everard  calls  it?  I  don't  know  that  one  need  be  proud 
of  it,  any  more  than  of  having  one's  nose  placed  in  'the 
middle  of  one's  face,  instead  of  all  askew,  as  befalls  some 
people;  and  yet  the  devil  is  quite  active  enough  in  per- 
suading me  to  be  vain  of  it  without  my  friend's 
assistance." 

"It  strikes  me,  Cyril,"  broke  in  Everard,  "that  you 
and  the  devil  are  on  very  confidential  terms.  I  should 
have  thought  an  innocent  young  parson  like  you  the  .yery 
last  person  the  arch-enemy  would  select  to  hob-and-nob 
with." 

"As  if  the  premier  were  to  hold  confidential  chats  with 
the  late  Nana  Sahib,"  added  Ingram,  laughing. 

Cyril  flushed  hotly,  and  then  said,  with  a  quietly 
dignified  air,  of  which  he  was  master  when  he  wished  to 
rebuke  gently,  "You  are  light-hearted,  Henry;  your 
spirits  run  away  with  you." 

Upon  which  Everard  could  not  resist  retorting,  with 
unabashed  gravity,  "I  trust  that  yours  will  not  run  away 
with  you,  Cyril,  since  they  are  of  such  a  questionable 
complexion." 

"Come,  you  idle  people,"  broke  in  Lilian;  "it  is  time 
to  go  to  the  school-room.  Are  you  going  to  be  a  waiter, 
Ingram?  There  is  no  compulsion,  remember.  Henry 
and  the  two  Garretts  are  enlisted.  Keppel  Everard  is 
our  Ganymede;  Marion  and  I  are  Hebes.  In  plain  Eng- 
lish, we  serve  the  tea,  and  Keppel  the  beer." 

"Since  all  the  posts  are  filled,  I  will  engage  myself  as 
general  slavey,"  said  good-tempered  Ingram,  rising 
and  following  Lilian  to  the  school-rooms,  where  a  sub- 
stantial meal  was  spread  and  Mr.  Maitland  with  his  cu- 
rate, Mr.  Marvyn,  was  already  receiving  his  humble 
guests,  who,  unlike  the  guests  of  more  fashionable  enter- 
tainments, liked  to  arrive  before  instead  of  after  the  ap- 
pointed hour,  and  in  this  case  came  long  before  all  the 
candles  were  lighted,  so  that  they  depended  chiefly  on 
fire-light  for  illumination. 

Soon,  however,  the  tables  were  full,  men,  women,  and 
children  sitting  before  a  bounteous  supply  of  roast  beef 


THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  99 

and  potatoes;  while  the  air  became  oppressive  with  the 
scent  of  crushed  evergreens  and  steaming  food.  Mr. 
Maitland  and  his  curate  had  one  table;  Cyril  and  the 
Rev.  George  Everard  presided  at  another;  and  the  chil- 
dren's special  board  rejoiced  in  Lennie  and  Winnie  as 
host  and  hostess. 

Profound  gravity  prevailed,  broken  only  by  an  occa- 
sional feminine  titter  or  childish  laugh,  though  it  was 
evident,  from  the  expression  of  Granfer's  face  when  he 
came  to  the  end  of  his  first  plate  of  beef,  that  he  contem- 
plated making  a  remark,  probably  of  a  jocular  nature. 
All  the  mirth  of  the  feast  seemed  to  be  concentrated  in 
the  faces  of  the  Hebes  and  Ganymedes,  who  flew  about 
the  room  with  the  greatest  enjoyment,  and  took  care  that 
neither  plate  nor  cup  was  empty.  The  two  most  assidu- 
ous waiters  were  Ingram  Swaynestone  and  Everard,  both 
of  whom  appeared  to  have  the  gift  of  ubiquity,  and  carved 
with  a  recklessness  and  rapidity  that  astonished  alt  be- 
holders. It  was  not  until  the  pudding  was  finished,  and 
grace  had  been  sung  by  the  choir,  that  some  symptoms 
of  mirth  and  enjoyment  began  to  break  out  among  the 
rustic  revellers,  and  Mr.  Maitland  laughed  with  his  usual 
heartiness  at  Granfer's  annual  joke,  a  fine  antique  one, 
with  the  mellowness  of  fifty  years  upon  it. 

It  was  pleasant,  while  the  tables  were  being  cleared, 
and  the  people  were  grouped  about  the  room,  to  see  Cyril 
move  among  his  old  friends,  saying  to  each  exactly  the 
right  thing,  in  the  manner  exactly  fitted  to  charm  each; 
going  up  to  Tom  Hale,  and  laying  his  hand  affectionately 
on  his  stalwart,  red-coated  shoulder,  and  calling  the 
pleased  flush  into  his  face  by  the  manner  in  which  he 
alluded  to  old  times,  especially  the  immortal  battle. 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  fight  you  now,  Tom,"  he  added; 
"or  Jim  either.  It  is  well  that  my  calling  makes  me  a 
man  of  peace,  while  yours  make  you  men  of  war." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Cyril,  it  is  all  very  well  to  be  strong," 
replied  Tom;  "  but  what's  that  to  a  head-piece  like 
yours?" 

"They  would  rather  have  a  smile  from  Cyril  than  a 
whole  dinner  from  the  rest  of  us,"  Everard  observed  to 


»00  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

Lilian,  as  he  paused  a  moment  in  his  toilsome  occupation 
of  re-arranging  the  room.  "Just  look  at  George,"  be 
added,  pointing  to  his  reverend  brother,  who  was  stand- 
ing disconsolate  and  dejected  in  the  quietest  corner  he 
could  find;  "he  is  afraid  that  people  are  enjoying  them- 
selves. He  would  give  his  head  to  be  allowed  to  improve 
the  occasion." 

"He  implored  my  father  to  substitute  hymns  and  cler- 
ical addresses  fcr  our  frivolous  little  entertainment," 
replied  Lilian.  "He  asked  him  how  he  would  answer  for 
having  let  slip  such  a  precious  opportunity  of  preaching 
the  Gospel." 

"Such  a  gospel — 

"  'The  dismal  news  I  told, 

How  our  friends  are  all  embarking 
For  the  fiery  port  of  hell.' 

Poor  old  George!  What  a  dreary  phantasmagoria  life 
must  seem  to  him!" 

"Happily,  he  doesn't  really  believe  his  creed.  He 
asked  Granfer  just  now  if  he  knew  that  he  was  standing 
on  the  brink  of  the  grave.  Granfer  replied,  'Ay,  I've 
ben  a-standing  there  this  ninety  year  and  more,  and  I 
bain't,  zo  to  zay,  tired  on't  yet.' " 

Everard  went  up  to  his  brother  and  accosted  him.  "I 
hope  there  is  nothing  wrong,  George,"  he  said;  "you 
look  as  if  something  had  disagreed  with  you." 

"Thank  you,  Henry,"  he  replied,  "my  health  is,  under 
Providence,  excellent;  but  I  grieve  for  the  souls  of  these 
poor  creatures.  I  have  ascertained  for  a  fact  that  Mait- 
land  has  caused  beer  and  tobacco  to  be  placed  in  a  class- 
room for  the  men.  Why,  oh,  why  will  he  not  kad  them 
to  the  only  true  source  of  comfort?" 

The  diners  were  now  joined  by  other  guests  of  a  higher 
grade;  Farmer  Long  and  his  family;  other  farmers;  a 
fresh  contingent  of  Garretts ;  and  last,  though  not  by  any 
means  least,  Sir  Lionel  Swaynestone  and  his  two  pretty 
daughters. 

Thereupon  the  choir,  assisted  by  amateurs,  struck  up 
"My  love  is  like  a  red,  red  rose,"  and  the  concert  began. 
Wax  executed  a  solo  on  the  clarionet  of  such  fearful 
difficulty  that  Everard  trembled  lest  he  should  break  a 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  AIAITLAND.  ioi 

blood-vessel;  and  everybody,  including  Airs.  Wax,  who 
coursed  frantically  after  his  rapid  runs  and  flourishes  on 
the  piano,  breathed  an  inward  thanksgiving  when  he  had 
finished.  A  piano  duet  between  Miss  Swaynestone  and 
Miss  Garrett  followed,  and  was  not  the  less  tumultuously 
applauded  because  the  superior  swiftness  of  Miss  Gar- 
rett's  fingers  landed  her  at  the  finish  two  bars  ahead  of 
Miss  Swaynestone,  who  played  on  to  the  end  with  unruf- 
fled composure.  Nobody  had  taken  the  slightest  notice 
of  any  of  these  performances,  save  Wax's,  which  alarmed 
the  nervous;  but  now  a  change  took  place.  Cyril  led 
Lilian  on  to  the  platform,  and  Marion's  piano  prelude  was 
drowned  by  the  sound  of  heavy  feet  plunging  in  from  the 
smoking-room,  and  everybody  listened  attentively  for 
what  was  a  really  delicate  entertainment  for  the  ear — a 
vocal  duet  between  the  twins.  Even  Sir  Lionel  left  his 
stately  calm  to  encore  the  simple  melody,  while  Granfer 
did  serious  damage  to  the  school  floor  with  his  stick.  It 
was  not  that  the  brother  and  sister  sang  with  unusual 
skill,  or  that  their  voices  were  remarkably  good,  taken 
apart;  the  charm  lay  in  the  peculiar  sweetness  of  tone 
resulting  from  the  exact  blending  of  the  two. 

Ingram  Swaynestone  grumbled  in  a  good-tempered 
way  at  having  to  read  after  this  performance,  and  though 
he  read  a  bit  of  Dickens  with  great  spirit  and  humor, 
Everard  observed  that  the  audience  only  listened  and 
applauded  as  a  matter  of  duty.  Ethel  Swaynestone  was 
an  accomplished  singer,  but  her  voice  failed  to  please  the 
rustic  ear;  while  the  choir  glees  and  other  amateur  music 
were  received  as  a  matter  of  course.  But  when  Cyril 
once  more  stood  on  the  platform,  and  began  in  his  rich, 
pure  voice,  "There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night," 
Everard  was  startled  at  the  sudden  rush  of  attention  that 
fell  on  the  audience,  and  surprised  at  the  richness  of  har- 
mony in  the  well-known  stanzas.  Wrhen  Cyril  repeated 
the  line,  "But  hush!  hark!  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  ris- 
ing knell!'  the  rustics  started  and  looked  over  their 
shoulders  in  dismay,  and  one  susceptible  matron  uttered  a 
faint  shriek.  "Did  ye  not  har  it/'  continued  the  reciter,  in 
such  thrilling  tones  that  Mrs.  Stevens,  meeting  the  light 
of  Cyril's  blue  eyes,  took  the  question  personally,  and  re- 


102 

plied  wildly  in  the  negative,  to  the  general  consternation. 
Having  brought  this  to  a  conclusion  in  such  a  manner 
that  his  unlettered  audience  actually  saw  the  ball-room 
scene,  "the  cheeks  all  pale,"  the  "trembling  of  distress," 
and  actually  heard  the  sounds  of  approaching  doom 
break  in  upon  the  brilliant  revelry,  and  witnessed  the  hur- 
ried departure  of  the  troops  to  the  terrible  field  destined 
to  be  fertilized  with,  "red  rain,"  Cyril  paused,  to  let  the 
tumultuous  encore  subside;  and,  at  last,  when  silence 
ensued,  began  with  a  plaintiff  sweetness,  that  was  in 
strong  contrast  to  the  dramatic  force  and  fire  of  the  "Eve 
of  Waterloo" — 

"  'I  remember,  I  remember, 
The  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn. 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 
Or  brought  too  long  a  day; 
But  now — '  " 

Here  Cyril  paused,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"  ' — I  often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away.'  " 

To  Everard's  intense  surprise,  he  not  only  saw  tears  all 
round  him,  but  found  a  sensation  of  intense  sorrow  and 
longing  for  the  past  stealing  over  himself,  while  the 
pathos  of  Cyril's  voice  seemed  to  break  his  heart.  He 
saw,  as  they  all  saw,  Malbourne  Rectory,  and  Cyril,  a 
boy  once  more — gentle,  happy,  and  full  of  sweet,  inno- 
cent fancies;  and  when  the  latter  went  on,  in  his  quiet 
voice,  so  full  of  melodious  heartbreak — 

"  'And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday: 
That  tree  is  living  yet,'  " 

something  rushed  up  into  Everard's  throat  and  half 
choked  him.  He  knew  that  Cyril  was  thinking  of  a  rose- 
tree  he  had  planted  on  a  far-off  birthday. 

"  'But  now  'tis  little  joy,'  " 
said  Cyril,  with  a  voice  full  of  tears — 

"  'To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 
Than  when  I  was  a  boy.'  " 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  103 

There  was  no  applause  to  this;  complete  and  tearful 
silence  reigned  when  he  finished  and  stepped  quietly 
down  among  his  friends,  where  Sir  Lionel  gently  rebuked 
him  for  playing  so  cruelly  on  their  feelings,  and  added, 
"As  I  said  to  Ingram  yesterday,  such  a  voice  and  manner 
would  sway  the  House;"  and  every  one  was  relieved 
when  the  choir  struck  up,  "All  among  the  Barley." 

Lilian  was  among  the  few  who  did  not  give  way  to 
tears  during  the  recital  of  Hood's  pathetic  little  poem, 
though  Everard,  who  hovered  near  her  all  the  evening, 
observed  that  her  large,  soft  gray  eyes  were  dewy  wet,  as 
was  their  wont  when  she  was  moved,  and  her  face  re- 
flected all  the  changes  on  her  brother's.  It  was  not  easy 
to  get  very  close  to  Lilian,  because  she  was  fenced  in, 
as  it  were,  by  a  little  ring  of  children,  who  clung  to  her 
skirts,  and  laid  their  cheeks  against  her  beautiful,  slender 
hands,  and  were  perfectly  happy  with  the  privilege  of 
touching  her. 

"  I  do  not  think,"  she  said,  while  returning  to  the 
Rectory  through  the  frosty  moonlight  with  Everard, 
"that  Cyril  is  farther  off  from  heaven  than  when  he  was 
a  boy.  Indeed,  it  seems  to  me  that  one  must  grow 
nearer  to  it  with  every  day  of  life,  unless  one  deliberately 
turns  from  it." 

"You  are  speaking  from  your  own  experience,"  re- 
plied Henry.  "Men  are  indifferent.  To  go  through 
early  manhood  is  to  be  drawn  over  a  morass  of  tempta- 
tion, into  which,  with  the  best  intentions,  most  men  sink 
occasionally." 

"Not  men  like  Cyril,  Henry.  He  is  so  slightly 
weighted  with  flesh  that  he  would  skim  dry-footed  over 
the  most  quaking  quagmire.  I  know  every  thought  in 
Cyril's  heart." 

Everard  was  half  inclined  to  indorse  this  opinion  of 
Cyril.  He  recognized  in  his  friend's  character  a  certain 
feminine  element,  that  ewig  weibliche  which  Goethe  pro- 
nounces the  saving  ingredient  in  human  nature.  The 
protecting  tenderness  with  which  he  loved  the  bright, 
gentle  boy,  two  years  his  junior  and  less  robust  than 
himself.still  lived  in  his  deep  affection  for  the  pious  and  in- 
telligent young  priest.  Cyril's  feelings  were  sacred  to  him 


104 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


as  a  woman's;  he  feared  to  sully  their  delicate  bloom  by 
harsh  illusions  to  the  bare  facts  of  life.  He  was  one  of 
the  twins,  both  of  whom  were  objects  of  his  life-long  ten- 
derness. And  Cyril  had  his  moods,  like  a  woman — a 
peculiarity  not  without  fascination  for  Everard's  move 
thoroughly  masculine  mind. 

A  soft  mood  was  on  Cyril  that  night.  He  knocked  at 
Everard's  door  after  every  one  had  retired  for  the  night 
and  drew  a  chair  to  his  side  by  the  fire,  before  which  the 
doctor  was  smoking,  and,  investing  himself  in  one  of 
Everard's  coats,  lighted  a  pipe  of  his  own. 

"The  coolness  with  which  the  fellow  takes  my  coats!" 
growled  Everard. 

"It  is  no  matter  if  your  coate  smell  of  tobacco,"  replied 
Cyril,  tranquilly;  "I  smoke  so  seldom  that  I  have  no 
smoking  coats.  To-night  I  am  restless." 

"Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover?"  laughed  Everard. 
"Because  Marion  is  gone  back  to  Woodland  for  two 
days,  I  suppose." 

"You  may  laugh,  Henry,  but  I  feel  more  than  lost 
without  her.  I  am  helpless,  separated  from  the  best  influ- 
ence of  my  life." 

"You  are  a  slave  to  your  feelings;  learn  to  master 
them." 

"It  is  true,"  replied  Cyril.  "You  are  the  best  and 
wisest  friend  ever  man  had.  I  never  regretted  doing  any- 
thing you  advised.  I  shall  always  be  grateful  to  you  for 
making  me  read  up  for  mathematical  honors.  I  needed 
that  discipline  to  steady  me.  I  have  never  valued  you  as 
you  deserve ;  only  now  and  again  it  flashes  upon  me  that 
what  I  take  for  granted  is  of  superior  worth.  How 
selfish  I  was  about  letting  Marion  join  you  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean! You  little  dream  how  I  suffered  for  that.  Well, 
without  you,  Marion  and  I  would  have  been  parted  for- 
ever." 

"Without  Lilian." 

"You  and  Lilian  together.  How  selfish  and  weak  I 
was!  and  the  harm  that  came  from  it!" 

"Oh,  come!     It's  all  right  now ;  a  fol gotten  story." 

"There  are  things  that  can  never  be  forgotten,"  sighed 
Cyril,  with  the  pathetic  intonation  that  had  broken  peo- 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


105 


pie's  hearts  in  the  evening.  "To  give  way  to  a  sin, 
only  one  sin,  is  like  letting  a  little  water  through  a 
dike.  A  child  may  begin  it,  but  once  begun,  the  terrible 
consequences  sweep  endlessly  on,  a  very  flood  of  iniquity. 
I  suppose  there  is  nothing  which  has  the  power  of  multi- 
plying itself  like  sin.  One  hideous  consequence  begets 
a  hundred  more  hideous,"  continued  Cyril,  staring  mood- 
ily at  the  fire,  while  his  pipe  lay  extinct  and  neglected 
by  his  side. 

"I  see  no  pulpit,  your  reverence,"  said  Everard,  who 
was  puffing  away  with  quiet  enjoyment. 

Cyril  turned  with  one  of  his  sudden  changes,  and 
flashed  a  mirthful  glance  of  his  strange  blue  eyes  on  his 
friend,  and,  replenishing  his  pipe  from  the  tobacco 
which  Keppel  had  brought  for  Everard  on  his  return 
from  his  last  voyage,  broke  into  a  strain  of  gay,  affection- 
ate chat,  full  of  a  thousand  reminiscences  of  the  school- 
days they  passed  together  under  Mr.  Marvyn's  care  in  the 
quiet  village. 

"What  a  fellow  you  were!"  exclaimed  Cyril,  with  enthu- 
siasm, after  recalling  a  certain  story  of  a  Sevres  vase;  and 
though  Everard  only  grunted,  he  looked  at  the  graceful, 
animated  figure  before  him  with  an  affectionate  adora- 
tion that  made  him  feel  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to  die  for 
suchaman.  "Iwasafraid  whenl  smashed  the  vase,"  contin- 
ued Cyril,"and  but  for  you  I  should  have  hidden  it.  I  never 
shall  forget  seeing  you  walk  up  to  Lady  Swaynestone  and 
tell  her  that  we  had  run  up  against  the  vase  and  broken 
it.  I  felt  such  a  sneak;  I  had  done  it,  and  you  took  the 
blame  on  yourself  and  got  the  punishment.  She  said  no 
word,  but  delivered  you  such  a  box  on  the  ear  as  made 
mine  tingle,  and  sent  you  staggering  across  the  room. 
Then  her  anger  found  words,  and  you  bore  it  all." 

"I  never  knew  a  ruder  or  more  ill-bred  woman,"  said 
Everard. 

"I  suppose  you  got  over  the  box  on  the  ear  in  an  hour 
or  two,"  continued  Cyril;  "but  I  did  not.  I  was  mis- 
erable for  days,  hating  myself,  and  yet  too  frightened  to 
tell  the  truth." 

Everard  here  produced  a  yawn  of  cavernous  intensity, 
and  dropped  his  pipe  in  sheer  drowsiness;  but  Maitland 


106  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  HAITI AND . 

seemed  more  alert  than  ever,  and  rose  in  hi»  restlessness 
and  looked  out  of  the  window  on  the  dark  vault  of  shim- 
mering stars. 

"The  night  wanes,"  he  said;  "one  day  more,  and  the 
weary  old  year  will  be  done — only  one  day." 

"Ungrateful  fellow!"  said  Everard,  stretching  himself 
till  he  seemed  gigantic;  "such  a  good  old  year.  I  shall 
be  sorry  to  say  good-bye  to  him,  for  my  part." 

Cyril  dropped  the  curtain  and  turned  to  the  fire,  his 
features  all  alight.  "Let  us  look  forward,"  he  said,  "to 
the  rosy  future.  Welcome  to  sixty-three,  Harry ;  it  is  full 
of  promise  for  us  both!  Good  night,  dear  lad,  and  God 
bless  you!" 

And,  with  a  warm  hand-clasp,  he  took  his  leave,  but 
turned  again,  lingering  irresolute ;  and  then,  with  another 
warm  hand-clasp  and  blessing;  left  his  drowsy  friend 
to  his  slumbers,  just  as  the  church  clock  was  striking 
three. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  last  day  of  the  year  dawned  bright  and  cloudless,  a 
very  prince  and  pearl  of  winter  days,  and  Everard;s  heart 
bounded  within  him  as  he  looked  out  on  the  ruddy  morn- 
ing, and  felt  it  a  joy  merely  to  live. 

"I  shall  long  remember  sixty-two,"  he  thought;  "it  has 
been  a  good  year,  and  to-day  will  crown  and  complete  the 
whole.  To-day  I  will  make  sure  of  my  fate." 

The  wine  of  life  never  before  had  the  sparkle  and  effer- 
vescence of  that  morning;  it  was  almost  too  much  for  a 
sober  mind.  Had  Everard  been  superstitious,  or  even  in- 
trospective, he  would  have  presaged  disaster  at  hand.  In- 
stead of  which,  he  rejoiced  in  his  youth,  and  felt  as  if  his 
body  were  turned  to  air,  as  he  sprang  down  the  staircase 
and  into  the  sunny  breakfast  room. 

Mr.  Maitland  was  late  that  morning,  and  Cyril  read  the 
simple  household  prayers.  Everard  loved  this  sweet  cus- 
tom of  family  prayer,  remiss  as  he  often  was  in  assisting 
personally  at  it;  it  seemed  so  fit  and  harmonious  for  that 


THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  HAITIAN D.  107 

holy  incense  to  ascend  from  the  altar  of  the  innocent 
country  homes,  and  to-day  it  acquired  a  sort  of  pathos 
from  the  youth  and  grace  of  the  reader.  The  scene  lived 
long  in  his  mind,  irradiated  by  a  sweet  life  of  peace  and 
holiness;  the  kneeling  children  and  Lilian,  the  sunshine 
touching  their  hair;  the  bowed  heads  of  the  maids;  the 
dignified  bearing  of  the  reader;  the  music  of  his  voice — a 
voice  soft  now,  and  soothing  as  the  murmur  of  the  brook 
beneath  the  trees,  with  none  of  the  tragic  tones  they  knew 
so  \vell.  Just  as  Cyril  was  about  to  pronounce  the  closing 
benediction,  Mr.  Maitland,  thinking  the  prayers  done,  en- 
tered, and  seeing  how  they  were  employed,  dropped  on  his 
knees  in  time  to  receive  the  lad's  blessing.  The  sight  of 
that  gray  head  bent  thus  before  the  young  priest's  benison 
touched  Everard  profoundly,  and  he  felt  humbled  to  think 
of  his  own  world-stained  soul  by  the  side  of  these  spot- 
less creatures — priests  and  women  and  children. 

"Lead  us  not  into  temptation,"  said  Cyril's  pure  rich 
voice,  chorused  by  the  innocent  trebles  and  Everard's  own 
faltering  bass. 

What  temptation  could  possibly  befall  those  guileless 
beings  that  day?  What  harsh  dissonance  could  ever  mar 
the  music  of  those  tuneful  lives?  he  wondered.  And  he 
was  glad  that  his  own  faltering  petition  had  gone  up  to 
Heaven  with  those  of  hearts  so  pure,  though  even  he 
could  scarcely  fall  into  temptation  in  that  sweet  spot,  he 
thought. 

Cyril  announced  his  intention  of  walking  into  Oldport 
that  bright  morning,  and  Lilian,  of  course,  was  to  go  part 
of  the  way  with  him.  Everard  had  been  asked  to  shoot 
over  some  of  the  Swanyestone  covers  and  rather  surprised 
Cyril,  who  knew  that  his  friend  liked  sport,  by  saying  that 
he  had  declined  the  shooting  party,  and  wanted  to  join  the 
pedestrians. 

"You  had  far  better  shoot,  Henry,"  he  said;  "a  mere 
walk  is  a  stupid  thing  for  you.  You  have  had  no  amuse- 
ment whatever  since  you  have  been  here." 

"To-morrow  we  plunge  into  a  vortex  of  dissipation,'' 
said  Everard.  "Will  you  give  me  the  first  dance,  Lilian? 
By  the  way,  I  suppose  his  reverence  has  given  up  these 
frivolities." 

"Oh,  I  shall  dance  at  Woodland's  to-morrow,"  replied 


Io8  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

Cyril.  "Just  two  square  dances  with  Marion,  and  then, 
I  suppose,  farewell  to  such  delights." 

"I  cannot  say  that  I  like  to  see  a  clergyman  dancing," 
observed  his  father,  "though  I  danced  myself  till  I  was 
forty,  and  should  enjoy  a  turn  with  the  young  people  even 
now." 

"Then,  let  us  have  a  quiet  carpet-dance  while  the  boys 
are  here,"  said  Lilian;  "just  the  Swaynestones  and  Gar- 
rets and  Marion,  and  father  shall  dance  with  each  of  us 
in  turn." 

"Oh,  yes!"  cried  Everard;  and  Cyril  chimed  in  with 
great  animation.  "Just  one  more  fling  for  me;;'  and  Mr. 
Maitland  went  off  laughing,  and  saying  he  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it — they  must  ask  their  mother,  and  Lennie 
and  Winnie  jumped  for  joy,  and  announced  that  'they 
should  not  go  to  bed  before  their  elders,  and  the  little  fete 
was  regarded  as  a  pleasant  certainty. 

Cyril  kept  them  waiting  some  minutes  after  the  ap- 
pointed time  for  starting.  He  had  important  letters  to 
write,  he  said;  and  when  at  last  he  appeared,  his  face 
was  full  of  care  and  perplexity.  In  the  meantime,  Lilian 
and  Everard  were  very  happy  on  the  sunny  lawn  together, 
visiting  the  invalid  donkey  and  other  animals,  and  wan- 
dering about  the  old  play-ground,  past  the  spot  where 
the  twins  used  to  play  at  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  where 
Everard  helped  them  build  a  hut,  and  recalling  a  thou- 
sand pleasant  memories  of  their  childish  labors  and  sports. 
There  was  hoar-frost  on  the  delicate  branches  of  the  leaf-- 
less trees,  and  the  sunshine  was  broken  into  a  thousand 
jewel-like  radiances  by  the  little  sharp  facets  of  the  ice- 
crystals.  There  was  an  unwonted  sparkle,  also,  in  Lilian's 
eyes,  and  a  deeper  glow  on  her  cheeks  than  usual.  The 
air  was  like  wine. 

The  blacksmith  was  clinking  merrily  at  his  glowing 
forge  as  they  passed  along  the  road,  and  his  blithe  music 
carried  far  in  the  still  air.  Granfer  was  sunning  himself 
outside,  according  to  custom,  ready  for  a  chat  with  any- 
body, and  commanding  from  his  position  a  view  of  all 
the  approaches  of  the  village.  Hale,  the  wheelwright, 
was  there,  getting  some  ironwork  done,  and  turned  with 
Granfer  to  look  after  the  trio. 

"Ay,"  observed  the  latter,  shaking  his  head  wisely,  "a 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


109 


viner  pair  than  they  twins  o'  ourn  you  never  see,  John 
Hale,  so  well  matched  they  be  as  Sir  Lionel's  bays." 

"A  pretty  pair,"  replied  the  wheelwright;  'but  give  me 
the  doctor.  There's  muscle  and  build!" 

"Ay,"  echoed  Straun,  between  the  rhythmic  hammer- 
strokes;  "a  man  like  he's  a  credit  to  his  vittles." 

The  young  doctor's  appearance  certainly  justified  this 
observation,  and  his  walk  and  bearing  fully  set  oft  the 
robust  manliness  of  his  athletic  frame,  which  was  further 
enhanced  by  contrast  with  Cyril's  slender  grace.  The 
friends  were  of  similar  height,  but  Henry's  shoulders 
were  higher,  and  made  him  look  taller;  his  chest  and 
back  were  far  broader  than  Cyril's,  and  his  well-balanced 
limbs  were  hard  with  muscle.  The  suit  of  gray  which  he 
wore  gave  him  breadth,  and  displayed  his  form  more  fully 
than  did  Cyril's  black  broadcloth  of  severe  clerical  cut, 
which  had  moreover  the  well-known  effect  of  lessening 
the  outlines  of  the  figure.  The  delicate  glow  which  the 
sparkling  air  had  called  into  Cyril's  worn  cheek  was  very 
different  from  the  firm  hue  of  health  in  Henry's  honest 
face;  and  the  fearless,  frank  gaze  of  his  bright,  brown 
eyes,  and  the  light  brown  mustache,  looking  golden  in 
the  sunshine,  gave  him  an  older  look  than  Cyril's  clean- 
shaven features  wore. 

Hale  observed  to  Granfer  that  whoever  attacked  the 
doctor  on  a  dark  night  would  find  him  an  ugly  customer, 
which  Granfer  admitted,  adding  that  Cyril's  strength  all 
went  to  brain  power,  in  which  he  was  supreme.  Lilian  also 
observed  Henry's  athletic  appearance  in  contrast  with  her 
brother's  slight  build,  and  then  she  remembered  how  the 
friends  but  the  day  before  had  been  playing  with  the  chil- 
dren in  the  hall,  and  the  fragile-looking  Cyril  had  given 
his  muscular  friend  a  blow  so  clean  and  straight  and  well- 
planted  that  the  doctor  had  gone  down  like  a  nine-pin  be- 
fore it,  to  the  great  amusement  of  the  children  and  satis- 
faction of  Everard. 

Farmer  Long  was  driving  into  Oldport  in  his  gig,  and 
there  beside  him  sat  Mr.  Marvyn,  charmed  to  see  his 
three  pupils  together.  •  "I  shall  not  see  you  again, 
Henry,"  he  said,  regretfully,  "unless  you  stay  over  Sun- 
day. I  only  came  back  for  the  entertainment  yesterday. 
I  have  a  parson's  week  to  finish.  Cyril  I  shall  see 


JtO  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

again."  And  so  they  parted  with  regret,  since  Everard 
was  greatly  attached  to  his  old  tutor,  who  had  encour- 
aged and  developed  his  taste  for  natural  science,  and  up- 
held him  in  his  choice  of  a  profession. 

"And  I  wanted  to  tell  old  Marvyn  about  my  germ 
theory,"  Everard  said,  as  the  gig  disappeared. 

"You  will  be  able  to  tell  the  whole  world  soon,"  replied 
Lilian,  to  whom  the  theory  had  been  confided  and  ex- 
plained that  very  morning. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Everard;  "it  takes  years  of  patient 
study  and  experiment  to  verify  a  scientific  theory." 

"Old  Hal  always  was  a  patient  fellow,"  Cyril  observed. 
"Do  you  remember  the  rows  about  his  dissections  in  his 
bedroom,  Lil?" 

Lilian  replied  that  she  remembered  the  odors,  and  they 
all  laughed  over  the  old  school-room  jokes  and  catastro- 
phes, and  were  very  happy  as  they  climbed  the  hillside 
by  a  field-path,  leaving  the  road  below  them.  Afterward 
Everard  remembered  the  rare  and  affectionate  expression, 
"Old  Hal."  And  now  in  the  bright  sunshine  he  was 
pleased  to  see  Cyril  so  like  his  old  self,  careless,  cordial, 
and  light-hearted,  all  the  asceticism  and  sadness  put 
away;  ambition,  toil,  and  care  completely  forgotten.  He 
knew  that  Cyril  loved  Marion  truly,  and  would  be  happy 
with  her,  and  yet  it  struck  him  that  morning  that  his 
strong,  half-instinctive  affection  for  his  twin  sister 
touched  a  yet  deeper  chord  in  his  nature.  Now  that 
Marion  was  away,  there  was  a  greater  ease  about  the 
twins;  each  seemed  to  develop  the  other's  thoughts  in 
some  mysterious  manner.  They  laughed  to  each  other, 
and  walked  hand-in-hand  like  children,  seeing  everything 
through  each  other's  eyes — the  still  sunny  winter  fields 
and  brown  woods  stretching  away  to  the  sea,  the  flocks  of 
weird  white  sea-gulls,  the  occasional  rabbit  or  pheasant 
starting  up  before  them,  the  larks,  silent  now,  fluttering 
over  the  grassy  furrows,  the  bright  berries  in  copse  and 
hedgerow,  the  sheep  peacefully  munching  the  mangolds 
a  solitary  sheperd  was  cutting  for  them  in  a  lonely  field. 
They  called  each  other  Cyll  and  Lill,  abbreviations  none 
else  ever  used ;  they  contradicted  each  other  as  they  never 
dreamed  of  contradicting  anybody  else. 

Everard  walked  along,  sometimes  by  their  side,  some- 


THE  SILEyCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  m 

times  behind  them,  as  the  nature  of  the  path  obliged, 
and  listened  to  them  and  loved  them.  The  twins  were 
never  so  delicious  to  him  as  when  together  in  his  familiar 
presence,  of  which  they  seemed  to  make  no  account.  So 
long  as  those  two  could  meet  together  thus,  an  immortal 
childhood  would  be  theirs,  he  thought; -age  could  never 
rob  the  beautiful  bond  between  them  of  its  bloom. 
Presently  they  quarrelled.  Lilian  sat  on  a  felled  tree  in 
the  woods  through  which  they  were  passing;  Cyril  leaned 
up  against  a  tree;  and  Everard  looked  on  with  amuse- 
ment, and  loved  them  all  the  more  in  their  childishness. 

"Oh,  you  babes  in  the  wood!''  he  cried  at  last;  where- 
upon Cyril  flashed  upon  him  one  of  his  droll  glances,  and 
laughed. 

"Come,  Lill,"  he  said,  "I  forgive  you  this  time." 

Absolute  harmony  and  utter  unconsciousness  of  past 
anger  was  established  between  them  on  the  instant,  and 
Everard  was  amused  to  hear  them  plunge  straightway 
into  a  grave  discussion  upon  the  limits  of  free  will. 

They  were  now  high  on  the  crest  of  the  hill,  and  could 
see  the  lovely  stretches  of  down  sweeping  away  to  the  un- 
seen sea  on  one  side,  while  on  the  other  the  Swaynestone 
lands  sloped  down  with  wood  and  park  and  farmstead 
till  they  merged  in  the  horizon,  which  was  broken  here 
and  there  by  tiny  blue  bays  of  inland  sea  on  the  north. 

There  was  no  sound;  all  the  song  birds,  even  the  robin, 
were  hushed  by  the  frost,  and  the  whole  landscape  lay 
silent  before  them,  folded  in  the  awful  purity  of  winter 
sunshine.  The  shadows  in  the  hills  and  woods  were  blue, 
and  distant  objects  looked  immensely  far  in  the  violet 
haze  of  the  winter  morning.  Here  they  paused,  deep  in 
their  argument,  and  looked  down  over  the  tranquil  woods 
and  saw  the  white  front  of  Swaynestone  House  gleaming 
in  the  sun. 

Down  in  a  low-lying  fallow  field  there  were  some  black 
specks  motionless  in  the  furrows;  suddenly  they  rose  in  a 
black  cloud  of  wings,  and  there  were  a  hundred  silver 
flashes  against  the  belt  of  coppice  bordering  the  field. 
Higher  still  the  cloud  rose,  and  swift  gleams  of  black  and 
silver  flashed  in  rhythmic  sequence  against  the  pure  blue 
of  the  sky,  and  the  weird  wail  of  the  plover  was  hear^ 
faintly,  as  the  flock  floated  in  a  dazzle  of  white  bodies  and 


JI2  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

black  wings  over  the  coppice  till  they  reached  another 
field,  into  the  furrows  of  which  they  dropped  motionless. 
While  Everard  and  Lilian  were  watching  the  plovers,  they 
did  not  observe  that  Cyril  plunged  into  the  wood  behind 
them  and  put  his  hand  into  the  hollow  of  a  tree. 

"I  was  looking  for  a  squirrel's  nest,"  he  said,  strolling 
back  again.  "Listen;  I  will  imitate  a  chaffinch." 

It  was  a  trick  they  used  to  practice  when  parted  from 
each  other  in  the  woods,  and  they  looked  down  over  the 
roof  of  the  Temple,  which  lay  among  the  trees  below 
them,  and  thought  of  their  old  rambles  for  nuts  and 
blackberries,  when  little  Alma  would  often  join  them  and 
tell  them  where  to  find  heavy-laden  boughs  and  bram-v 
bles.  Suddenly  from  among  the  trees  rose  the  call  of 
another  chaffinch,  exactly  corresponding  to  Cyril's. 

"Some  children  at  play,"  said  Cyril,  carelessly;  "Len- 
nie  and  Winnie,  perhaps.  They  were  going  to  Swayne- 
stone  to  slide.  I  must  get  on,  Everard;  I  have  a  lot  to 
do  in  Oldport" 

"  'Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  footpath  way, 

And  merrily  bent  the  stile-a; 

A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 

Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a.'  " 

Everard  sang  out  in  his  deep  voice,  as  the  trio  contin- 
ued their  walk  at  a  mended  pace. 

After  another  mile  through  hanging  woods  of  beech 
and  sycamore,  they  descended  a  hill  and  climbed  another 
crested  with  coppice,  through  which  they  passed,  brush- 
ing the  heavy  hoar-frost  from  the  dead  leaves  and  twigs 
as  they  went,  and  pausing  for  Lilian  to  show  them  the 
haunt  of  a  little  wren  in  a  bank.  The  tiny  bird,  attracted 
by  some  crumbs  sprinkled  on  her  muff,  came  cautiously 
out,  climbed  up  her  arm,  pecked  its  dainty  meal,  and  sttf- 
\  fered  itself  to  be  raised  on  the  muff  to  the  level  of  her  face, 
in  which  it  gazed  confidingly,  even  venturing  to  peck  at  a 
little  stray  fluff  of  a  curl  which  stole  over  her  neck.  Ever- 
ard and  Maitland  stood  apart  and  watched  this  pleasant 
comedy. 

"You  had  the  same  power  over  animals  as  Lilian," 
Everard  observed  to  Cvril.  "What  is  its  secret,  I  won- 
der?" 

"There  are  three  moral  factors,"  replied  Cyril :  ''perfect 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  u3 

self-control,  that  warm  and  intelligent  affection  which  we 
call  sympathy,  and  innocence.  Lilian  is  the  most  guile- 
less human  being  on  the  face  of  this  earth.  There  must 
also  be  some  physical  attraction,  I  suspect — some  mes- 
meric or  electric  power,  of  which  we  know  little." 

"But  surely  you  possess  the  three  moral  factors;  how 
is  it  you  have  lost  your  power?  Lilian  was  saying  only 
last  night  that  the  good  draw  nearer  heaven  with  increas- 
ing years,  and  you,  whose  life  has  not  been  merely  stain- 
less, but  austere — " 

"Henry,"  interrupted  Cyril,  in  his  most  pathetic  voice, 
"I  am  a  man !" 

Lilian  had  replaced  her  tiny  friend  at  its  house-door, 
and  now  joined  the  young  men,  who  went  on  their  way, 
Everard  struck  and  startled  by  the  heart-broken  accent 
Cyril  laid  on  the  word  man,  and  wondering  if  the  morbid 
tone  he  had  of  late  detected  in  the  young  priest's  mind 
did  not  almost  verge  on  insanity. 

At  the  end  of  the  coppice  through  which  they  were 
passing  was  a  stile  standing  on  a  steep  bank,  which  led  by 
rough  steps  down  into  the  high  road,  and  here  they 
parted,  the  twins  once  more  falling  into  discord,  each 
offering  Henry  as  a  companion  to  the  other,  and  declining 
to  selfishly  appropriate  him,  until  he  laughingly  sug- 
gested that  he  was  no  mere  chattel,  but  a  being  endowed 
with  will ;  also  that  his  will  decided  to  take  the  homeward 
path  with  Lilian — a  decision  which  evidently  satisfied 
Cyril,  who  sprang  clown  the  steep  bank,  and  turned,  on 
reaching  the  road,  to  the  stile — over  which  the  other  two 
leaned — with  a  laughing  face,  and  lifted  his  hat  in  his 
own  graceful  manner.  They  gazed  after  the  light,  well- 
carried  figure  for  a  moment  or  two,  little  imagining  how 
all  the  light  died  out  of  the  bright  young  face  when  it 
turned  from  them,  what  a  weight  of  trouble  lined  the 
clear  brow  and  drew  down  the  corners  of  the  delicate 
mouth,  and  added  ten  years,  at  least,  to  his  apparent  age, 
and  then  they  began  to  trace  their  steps  through  the  wood. 

"It  is  like  old  times,"  Lilian  observed.  "Cyril  and  I 
are  growing  old  and  wise,  Henry;  we  are  seldom  like  that 
now.  We  seem  to  grow  apart,  which  we  must  expect." 

"The  old  order  changeth,  giving  place  to  new,'" 
quoted  Everard.  "The  new  may  be  better,  but  one  does 


j  14  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

not  like  to  part  with  the  old,"  he  added,  falteringly,  after 
a  pause. 

"The  old — was  good,"  replied  Lilian,  rather  absently; 
and  the  perfect  self-command  of  which  her  brother  had 
spoken  suddenly  deserted  her,  with  the  consciousness  that 
the  story  of  her  life  and  love  was  approaching  a  crisis, 
and  the  two  walked  on  in  silence. 

Everard's  bright  spirits  seemed  to  have  flown  onward 
in  the  wake  of  Cyril,  his  heart  sank  down  like  a  thing  of 
lead,  and  a  dreadful  vision  of  all  his  sins  and  shortcom- 
ings, his  weaknesses  and  failings,  rose  ghastly  and  op- 
pressive before  him.  Henry  Everard  appeared  to  him  as 
the  merest  rag  of  a  man — the  most  complete  failure  that 
ever  issued  from  the  workshops  of  nature  and  educa- 
tion. He  stole  a  glance  at  Lilian,  walking  with  her 
light  step  and  airy  carriage  by  his  side;  a  sweet  picture 
of  stainless  womanhood,  her  cheeks  flushed  with  purest 
rose  by  exercise,  her  eyes  cast  down  contrary  to  their 
wont,  her  hair  touched  into  golden  tints  by  the  sunlight, 
and  the  outline  of  her  form  traced  clearly  against  a  back- 
ground of  frosted  hazel  boughs,  and  his  spirit  died  within 
him.  What  had  he  to  offer  her?  How  could  he  ever 
dare?  And  yet —  Lilian  turned  under  the  stress  of  his 
ardent  gaze,  and  met  his  eyes  for  one  swift  moment;  then 
her  looks  resumed  their  commerce  with  the  mossy,  frost- 
veined  path,  and  a  rich  rush  of  crimson  flooded  her  face. 

"Lilian,"  began  Henry,  breathlessly,  "we  have  beeft. 
great  friends  all  our  lives." 

"Yes,"  replied  Lilian,  regaining  her  natural  mental 
poise;  "Cyril  and  !J  always  appropriate  each  other's 
goods." 

"Supposing  Cyril  out  ''of  the  question,"  he  jadded, 
hastily,  "would  you  not  care  for — value  my  friendship? 
In  short,  am  I  not  your  own  personal  friend?  Don't  you 
care  a  little  for  me  for  my  own  sake,  Lilian?" 

"Indeed  I  do,  dear  Henry,"  she  replied,  a  little  trem- 
ulously "There  is  no  friend  for  whom  I — whom  I 
value  more  highly.  That  is — yes,  we  are  real  friends." 

"You  were  always  dear  to  me,  very  dear — as  dear  as 
Marion  herself,"  continued  Henry;  "but  you  have  become 
the  dearest  of  all  since  I  scarcely  know  when — the  very 
dearest  human  being  on  earth.  Oh,  Lilian,  the  truth  is 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  1x5 

that  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart!  I  have  loved  you  long; 
I  cannot  tell  when  I  began." 

"That  is  not  the  important  question,"  returned  Lilian, 
with  a  little  smile  drawing  about  her  lips  and  eyes.  "The 
question  is,  how  long  do  you  mean  to  go  on?" 

The  same  quaint,  half-humorous,  half-pathetic  expres- 
sion which  so  often  lighted  Cyril's  pale  blue  eyes  now 
gleamed  from  Lilian's  gray  orbs,  moistened  with  the 
sweet  dew  which  so  frequently  enhanced  their  luster, 
and  even  in  that  passionate  moment  Henry  observed  this, 
and  thought  how  closely  his  love  and  his  friendship 
were  bound  together,  and  realized  that  Cyril  was  dearer 
than  ever  to  him  now  that  Lilian  was  his. 

The  ansv/er  to  Lilian's  playful  earnest  was  the  old  im- 
memorial assertion  of  lovers,  repeated  with  endless  de- 
lightful iteration,  long  drawn  out  with  Heaven  knows 
how  much  unnecessary  sweetness.  The  old  unvarying 
song  the  birds  sing  every  spring,  with  a  fresh  charm  that 
never  cloys,  though  the  white-headed  man  heard  it  in  his 
childhood,  and  in  the  days  when  he  too  swelled  the 
many-voiced  marriage  hymn  which  ascends  perpetually 
from  the  youth  and  strength  of  earth;  the  old  eternal 
song  which  is  yet  the  freshest  sound  that  ever  falls  on  the 
ear  of  youth,  and  fills  it  with  a  sweet  bewildered  surprise; 
the  theme  which  changed  Eden  from  a  prison  to  a  home; 
— this  delicious  melody  was  sung  over  again  in  the  win- 
try woods  that  day,  when  all  the  birds  were  hushed  by 
the  frost,  and  the  earth  lay  still  in  its  winter  trance. 

The  singing  of  this  pleasant  duet  took  a  long  time,  and 
the  low  midwinter  sun  passed  its  meridian  and  travelled 
some  distance  on  its  westward  way,  while  they  strolled 
slowly  on  with  many  pauses,  slowly  enough  to  chill  blood 
not  warmed  by  the  current  of  vital  flame  which  young 
Love  sends  through  the  veins,  until  they  reached  the  spot 
above  the  Temple,  where  they  watched  the  plover's  flight 
in  the  morning.  They  paused  there. 

At  that  moment  a  delicate  music  floated  up  from  the 
valley,  the  well-known,  cheery  chiming  of  the  wagon- 
bells.  Nearer  and  nearer  the  golden  harmony  swelled, 
stronger  and  stronger  the  fairy  peals  waxed,  as  the  team 
approached  on  its  way  along  the  high-road  to  Oldport, 


Ii6  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

till  the  soft  chimes  came  tumbling  in  the  full  power  of 
their  sweet  turbulence  upon  the  clear,  still  air. 

"Those  are  our  wedding-bells,"  said  Everard,  as  they 
passed  on  and  let  the  melodious  clashing  die  away  behind 
them  in  the  distance.  "It  is  a  good  omen." 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  irony  of  fate  will  often  have  it  so  that  when  life 
gains  its  culminating  point  of  happiness,  it  is  but  one 
degree  from  the  darkest  hour  of  overthrow;  just  as  the 
blossom  has  reached  its  sweetest  bloom,  the  blighting 
frost  comes,  and  all  is  over.  When  Everard  and  Lilian 
exchanged  the  promise  whose  sweetness  was  to  live 
through  so  many  dark  and  lonely  years,  they  little 
dreamed  that  any  peril  was  near  them  in  the  silent  wood. 
They  saw  no  crouching  figure  trembling  behind  the  hazel 
bushes;  they  did  not  guess  that  any  eye,  save  those  of  the 
wild  creatures  of  the  wood  witnessed  their  betrothal ;  and 
they  went  on  their  way  rejoicing,  making  plans  for  the 
happy  future  they  were  to  spend  side  by  side. 

When  Ben  Lee  went  home  to  dinner  that  day,  the 
young  groom,  Judkins,  accompanied  him,  as  he  often  did 
now,  finding  a  strange  solace  to  his  own  grief  in  that  of 
the  troubled  father,  and  pleased  that  the  old  man  turned 
to  him  for  consolation.  He  usually  left  Lee  at  he  door, 
but  on  this  occasion  Mrs.  Lee  came  out  and  beckoned 
him  in. 

"She's  gone  to  meet  him,"  she  said,  excitedly.  "She 
made  believe  to  go  and  gather  a  bit  of  brushwood  in  the 
garden,  and  she's  off  up  the  hill  to  the  wood.  He  must 
have  passed  an  hour  ago,  and  there  was  the  whistle  of  a 
chaffinch  for  signal.  I  heard  her  whistle  back,  the 
deceitful  fagot,  though  she  thought  I  was  safe  out  of  the 
way,  and  she's  been  watching  for  an  opportunity  ever 
since.  Straight  up  the  hill  she  went,  Lee,  not  twenty 
minutes  gone." 

While  Mrs.  Lee  was  speaking,  the  two  men  had  fol- 
lowed her  through  the  house,  and  now  stood  in  the  back 
garden,  whence  they  could  see  the  whole  slope  of  the  hill 


TEE  SILEXCE  OF  DEAX  UAITLAND. 


117 


with  its  woody  crest  traced  clear  against  the  blue  midday 
sky.  Beneath  this  crest  the  trees  had  been  cleared  in  a 
straight,  broad  strip  about  the  breadth  of  the  little 
garden. 

"Look  here,  Ben!"  cried  Judkins,  seizing  the  arm  of 
Lee,  who  was  striding  rapidly  through  the  garden,  and 
was  aboirt  to  ascend  the  treeless  slope;  "don't  you  do 
nothing  rash,  now." 

Lee's  face  was  purple,  and  he  shook  the  younger  man 
off  with  a  muttered  oath,  when  the  latter  once  more 
caught  him  by  the  arms,  and  pointed  upward,  with 
a  cry. 

"I  knew  it;  I  always  knew  it.  The  damned  scoun- 
drel!" 

Just  within  the  shadow  of  the  wood,  which  partly 
screened  them,  were  two  figures,  the  inner  and  less  seen, 
that  of  a  woman  in  dark  winter  clothing;  the  outer,  that 
of  a  man  in  a  suit  of  gray.  The  light  hazel  twigs 
impinged  but  slightly  on  the  latter  figure,  so  that  its  out- 
line was  distinctly  seen,  and  the  face  itself  was  even 
visible  sideways  for  a  moment  The  female  figure,  on 
the  contrary,  with  the  face  hidden  in  the  other's  arm, 
and  its  dark  outlines  less  striking  by  their  color,  could 
figures  moved  over  the  woodland  path.  The  hazels  were 
denser  there,  and  the  path  turned  into  the  wood,  so  that 
the  pair  were  gradually  hidden,  and  soon  completely 
vanished  from  sight. 

"I'm  witness,  mind,"  Judkins  muttered,  while  Lee 
groaned  aloud.  "You  and  me  saw  him  go  through  the 
village  this  morning  in  those  gray  clothes  and  that  hat." 

So  saying,  the  young  man  turned  and  went  rapidly 
back,  avoiding  the  garden,  and  plunging  into  the  shadow 
of  the  trees  which  bordered  it  on  either  side,  while  Lee 
toiled  up  the  hill.  He  had  not  gone  far  before  Alma 
appeared  on  the  spot  where  the  hazels  grew  thin,  and 
issued  from  the  wood.  She  started  slightly  when  she  saw 
her  father,  but  soon  regained  her  composure,  and  ad- 
vanced toward  him. 

"What  were  you  doing  in  the  wood?"  he  asked, 
harshly. 


Il8  THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN   AIAITLAXD. 

"I  only  went  up  for  a  little  fresh  air  this  fine  day,"  she 
replied,  gently. 

"Went  up  to  hear  the  birds  sing,  perhaps,"  he  contin- 
ued with  savage  sarcasm. 

"There  are  no  birds  singing  now,"  said  Alma,  saclly. 
"Even  the  robin  is  silent  in  the  frost."- 

"Ay,  and  the  chaffinch.  Who  were  you  speaking  to  a 
minute  ago?" 

"Nobody,"  she  replied,  looking  surprised. 

"That's  a  damned  lie,  Alma!" 

"I  have  spoken  to  no  human  being  but  you  and  mother 
this  week  past,"  said  Alma,  in  a  tone  of  weary  apathy. 

They  had  reached  the  garden  now,  and  Alma  went  in, 
scarcely  hearing  the  imprecation  that  burst  from  her  mad- 
dened father's  lips. 

Lee  remained  behind  her;  then  descended  the  hill  and 
picked  up  a  little  scrap  of  paper  he  had  seen  Alma  tear  in 
halves  and  drop  when  she  thought  herself  unobserved. 
He  pieced  it  together,  and  read,  written  in  a  disguised 
backward-slanting  hand,  "At  dusk  to-night.  The  old 
spot.  Important." 

"Oh,  Alma!"  he  cried;  "my  pretty  Alma!  my  only 
child!"  Then  he  turned  back,  his  brow  darkening  as  he 
went,  till  the  momentary  tenderness  was  quite  effaced, 
and  he  muttered  fiercely  beneath  his  beath,  "111  kill  him! 
I'll  kill  him!" 

It  was  late  when  the  unconscious  lovers  reached  home. 
The  bell  was  ringing  for  luncheon,  and  Mark  Antony 
was  sitting  on  the  doorstep,  looking  very  cross  at  his 
mistress's  delay;  for  he  was  a  cat  of  regular  habits  and 
particularly  disliked  waiting  for  meals.  He  received 
Lilian  rather  distantly,  accepted  Henry's  caress  with 
haughty  disdain,  and  then  boxed  Snip's  ears  for  barking 
inopportunely. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Henry!"  cried  Lennie,  who  was  bounding 
into  the  dining-room  with  fresh-brushed  hair  and  clean 
collar,  "ain't  you  a  mess?" 

Henry  had  slipped  on  a  damp  bank  by  a  stream,  in  try- 
ing to  gather  some  ivy  colored  crimson  and  gold  for 
Lilian,  and  a  great  brown  and  green  stain  showed  strik- 
ingly on  the  knee  of  his  gray  suit.  In  two  bounds  he 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


IIQ 


was  in  his  room,  and  in  three  seconds  out  of  his  stained 
suit  and  into  another,  consisting  of  a  black  coat  and 
lower  garments  of  the  same  tone  of  gray  as  those  dis- 
carded. The  gray  suit  was  folded  neatly  and  placed  on  a 
chair,  and  he  appeared  at  the  table  in  less  than  five  min- 
utes in  that  perfect  neatness  and  cleanliness  which  so 
especially  distinguish  the  English  gentleman. 

No  one  observed  his  change  of  dress,  though  every- 
body had  noticed  the  morning's  gray  suit.  It  was  rather 
light  in  color  for  the  season,  according  to  the  fashion  of 
that  day,  and  had  commended  itself  to  Everard  from  the 
sense  of  cleanliness  that  light  colors  always  afforded  him. 
Lilian,  indeed,  observed  that  the  gray  coat  was  replaced 
by  a  black  one,  and,. in  speculating  afterward  on  the  sub- 
ject, she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  black  had  prob- 
ably been  assumed  for  in-door  wear,  as  being  cooler  than 
the  thick  frieze. 

Marion  appeared  at  luncheon,  having  droped  in  on  her 
way  to  Oldport,  where  she  had  errands  in  connection  with 
the  New-year's  ball  at  Woodlands.  She  made  a  charm- 
ing little  face  of  disappointment  at  the  non-appearance  of 
Cyril;  but  the  disappointment  by  no  means  spoiled  her 
appetite,  and  she  kept  them  all  alive  by  her  sprightly 
conversation  and  playful,  endearing  ways.  She  petted 
Mr.  Maitland  in  a  most  enchanting  manner;  teased 
the  children  and  the  cat;  was  impertinent  to  Lilian  when 
gently  rebuked  for  these  misdemeanors;  snubbed  her 
brother,  according  to  her  usual  custom;  and  was  very 
tender  in  the  little  cares  she  lavished  on  Mrs.  Maitland 
Her  vivacity,  and  the  bright  warm-colored  style  of  her 
beauty,  and  the  aerial  lightness  of  her  form  made  a  good 
foil  to  Lilian's  repose  and  gentle  dignity,  the  quieter  tones 
of  her  coloring,  and  the  more  majestic  development  of  her 
figure. 

Everard  regarded  his  sister  as  a  charming  wayward 
child,  loved  her  little  rebellious  ways,  and  put  up  content- 
edly with  all  her  naughtiness.  He  was  six  years  her  sen- 
ior, and  had  been  the  youngest  of  the  family  till  her  birth, 
which  cost  their  mother  her  life;  and  then  the  orphan 
baby  became  the  object  of  his  tenderest  care,  and  he 
soothed  away  his  own  sorrowful  sense  of  orphanhood 


130  TEE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  3IAITLAND. 

by  hovering  over  the  tiny  sister's  slumbers,  and  amusing 
her  waking  moments  by  all  kinds  of  childish  devices,  it 
was  partly  for  the  baby's  sake  that  he  was  never  sent  to 
school;  partly  also  in  obedience  to  the  request  of  his  dead 
mother,  who  judged,  from  her  experience  of  the  elder 
boys,  that  the  benefits  of  public  schools  were  overbal- 
anced by  their  contaminations  and  temptations.  All  his 
life  he  had  been  Marion's  devoted  slave,  and,  like  other 
despots,  she  received  his  devotion  with  a  satisfaction  not 
unmingled  with  contempt. 

"What  on  earth  is  Cyril  doing  in  Oldport  all  day?" 
Marion  asked.  "What  business  can  he  possibly  have?" 

"Upon  my  word  I  cannot  imagine,"  replied  Air.  Mait- 
land,  who  had  not  considered  the  subject  before. 

And  Marion's  question  set  Everard  thinking.  Cyril 
was  not  likely  to  make  many  purchases  in  the  little  coun- 
try town;  his  affairs  were  in  the  hands  of  London  law- 
yers; he  could  not  want  money;  he  had  no  friends  there; 
in  short,  it  was  very  odd  that  he  should  spend  the  day  in  a 
little  market  town  on  business  that  could  not  be  post- 
poned, and  so  miss  the  partly  expected  visit  of  Marion. 

Marion,  however,  carried  Air.  Alaitland  off  with  her 
after  luncheon,  on  his  rememebring  that  he  had  certain 
commissions  to  execute,  and  Lilian  drove  to  Swaynestone 
to  pay  her  long-promised  call  on  Lady  Swaynestone,  and 
advise  her  about  her  charities  according  to  her  request. 
She  had  a  thousand  things  to  do,  and  was  much  troubled 
that  she  could  not  visit  a  certain  \Vidow  Dove,  who  lived 
in  a  lonely  cottage  on  the  down,  that  afternoon,  and  carry 
her  a  little  present  of  money.  So  Henry,  finding  that  he 
could  not  be  allowed  to  accompany  Lilian  to  Lady 
Swaynestone's,  since  the  ladies  wished  to  discuss  business, 
offered  to  be  Lilian's  almoner,  and  was  eagerly  accepted. 

He  saw  Lilian  and  the  children  off  in  the  pony-carriage, 
and  then  betook  himself  to  writing  some  letters  in  the 
rooms  called  Lilian's;  and,  having  done  this,  he  remem- 
bered that  Lilian  had  lamented  having  no  time  to  frame 
and  hang  the  photograph  oi  Guercino's  picture,  and  did 
this  for  her,  the  frame  having  been  already  furnished  by 
the  village  carpenter. 

In  the  meantime,   at   about  three  o'clock,   Cyril   ap- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  I2i 

peared  in  the  drawing-room,  where  Mrs.  Maitland  was 
lying  on  her  couch.  He  had  finished  his  business,  got 
some  luncheon  at  Oldport,  and  been  picked  up  just  out 
of  the  town  by  Farmer  Long,  who  drove  him  home  in  his 
gig,  he  said.  Then,  after  ten  minutes'  chat  with  his 
mother,  he  went  to  his  room,  telling  her  that  he  wished 
to  get  a  sermon  ready  for  the  next  Sunday,  when  he  was 
to  be  at  work  again,  and  requesting  that  he  might  not  be 
disturbed  till  dinner. 

All  this  Mrs.  Maitland  told  Everard,  when  he  looked 
into  the  drawing-room  a  few  minutes  later. 

"I  begged  him  to  put  off  his  sermon-writing  till 
another  day,"  she  said,  "for  he  looked  woefully  haggard 
and  weary;  but  1  could  not  persuade  him.  He  says  he 
feels  so  burdened  until  he  has  got  his  Sunday's  sermons 
off  his  mind.  Just  like  his  father.  He  always  does  his 
sermons  on  Monday,  if  he  can,  and  feels  a  free  man  for 
the  rest  of  the  week." 

"It  is  rather  odd,"  Everard  observed,  "that  Cyril  should 
spend  so  much  time  in  writing  his  sermons;  for  he  is 
supposed  to  be  an  extempore  preacher." 

"Last  Sunday's  sermon  was  certainly  extempore,"  his 
mother  replied;  "he  had  some  manuscript,  but  scarcely 
referred  to  it  more  than  once.  I  wonder  if  I  am  a  very 
foolish  old  woman,  Henry,  for  thinking  that  Cyril  has  a 
really  singular  gift  in  preaching?  His  voice  appears  to 
me  to  be  something  quite  out  of  the  common.  And  I 
have  heard  John  Bright's  oratory,  and  Gladstone's  and 
D'Israeli's,  the.  best  preachers  in  our  own  Church  and 
those  brilliant  Roman  Catholics  who  attracted  such 
crowds  to  Notre  Dame." 

"I  think,  Mrs.  Maitland,"  replied  Everard,  who  was 
rather  distraught  in  his  manner,  since  he  was  nerving 
himself  to  introduce  the  topic  of  his  engagement,  "that 
Cyril  will  be  reckoned  the  greatest  preacher  in  the  Church 
of  England." 

Then  some  people  called,  and  Everard  made  his  escape 
;is  soon  as  he  decently  could,  and  at  about  a  quarter  to 
four  he  started  on  his  walk  to  Widow  Dove's  with  a 
light  heart.  His  road  was,  as  far  as  the  wood  above  the 
Temple,  the  same  as  that  he  had  pursued  so  happily  with 


122  THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

Lilian  an  hour  or  two  before,  and  it  filled  him  with 
unspeakable  rapture  to  recall  the  delightful  incidents  in 
his  morning  walk  he  went,  so  that  he  was  dreamy  and 
unobservant,  and  scarcely  spoke  to  the  people  he  met  on 
his  solitary  ramble,  a  thing  very  unusual  with  him. 

The  sun  was  declining  redly  and  with  great  pomp  of 
cloud  scenery  in  the  west — a  glorious  ending,  he  thought, 
of  the  happiest  of  happy  years;  and  that  was  the  only 
clew  he  had  to  the  time  of  his  starting,  when  referring  in 
memory  to  this  fatal  walk,  since  he  omitted,  in  his 
dreamy  abstraction,  to  look  at  his  watch,  though  he  was 
naturally  so  precise  in  his  habits,  and  had  such  a  keen 
sense  of  the  passage  of  time. 

When  he  reached  Widow  Dove's  lonely  dwelling,  he 
found  it  cold  and  dark,  the  door  shut,  and  no  smoke  issu- 
ing from  the  chimney;  the  widow  and  her  daughter  were 
evidently  gone  away  for  a  day  or  two.  He  felt  a  sort  of 
eerie  shiver  at  the  darkness  and  gloom  of  the  solitary 
homestead,  though  he  little  dreamed  that  his  fate  or 
the  fate  of  those  he  loved  could  be  influenced  by  a  cir- 
cumstance so  trifling  as  the  emptiness  of  a  secluded 
cottage. 

Then  he  turned  his  face  homeward  in  the  gathering 
dusk,  choosing  another  way  from  that  by  which  he  came, 
by  that  strange  fatality  which  pursues  doomed  men,  and 
strode  gayly  and  swiftly  along  over  the  open  down,  every 
dimple  and  hollow  of  which  were  familiar  to  him  from 
boyhood.  Some  stars  were  out  now,  sparkling  keenly  in 
the  clear,  frosty  sky,  in  which  the  moon  had  not  yet 
risen.  Over  hedge  -and  ditch,  and  through  copses,  and 
round  plantations  Everard  sped  blithely,  until  he 
approached  the  high-road  leading  to  Malbourne.  Here 
his  pace  slackened,  and  he  listened  carefully  for  the 
sound  of  Long's  wagon-bells,  which  he  thought  would 
carry  far  in  the  frosty  stillness. 

But  there  was  not  repetition  of  the  fairy  peals  which 
rang  so  blithely  in  the  morning,  and  he  got  as  far  as  the 
wheelwright's  corner  without  having  heard  them.  Grove, 
the  wagoner,  was  to  bring  him  a  parcel  from  Oldport,  a 
little  parcel  which  he  feared  might  be  forgotten  if  he  did 
not  intercept  it.  Here  he  met  Granfer,  toiling  slowly 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  j$3 

along  on  his  way  to  spend  the  evening  at  Hale's,  whose 
wife  was  one  of  his  numerous  descendants.  Had  Granfer 
heard  the  team  go  by?  he  asked.  • 

"No,  I  ain'  a-yeard  'em  since  this  marning,  zo  to  zay; 
not  as  I  knows  on,  Doctor  Everard,"  Granfer  replied, 
with  his  usual  circumlocution.  "I  'lows  I  yeard  'em's 
marning,  zure  enough.  They  was  a-gwine  into  Oldport, 
as  I  hreckons,  as  you  med  zay  zumwheres  about  noon  or 
thereabouts.  No,  I  'lows  I  ain't  a-yeard  nor  a  bell  zince 
that  there ;  not  as  I  knows  on,  I  ain't." 

Alter  some  further  conversation  Everard  strolled  slowly 
on  in  the  direction  of  Long's  farm,  full  of  anxiety  about 
his  precious  packet,  which  he  knew  would  fade.  Near 
Long's  he  heard  that  the  team  had  returned  some  time 
before,  and  his  packet  had  been  sent  to  the  Rectory. 

Striking  across  the  fields,  he  returned  in  the  deepening 
night,  without  going  through  the  village,  and,  meeting 
with  a  little  delay  in  consequence  of  an  old  gap  having 
been  recently  stopped  in  the  fence — a  good  stiff  bullfinch 
— he  gained  the  Rectory  at  about  six  o'clock,  thus  missing, 
to  his  disgust,  the  charmed  hour  of  tea.  There,  when^he 
entered,  was  the  precious  little  box  on  the  hall  table,  and 
he  caught  it  up  and  was  going  to  unfasten  it  in  his  room, 
when  Winnie  waylaid  him  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  eager 
for  a  romp,  which  romp  resulted  in  Winnie,  while  being 
tossed  high  in  air,  throwing  back  her  head  and  striking 
him  a  tremendous  blow  in  the  eye  with  it,  so  that  he  set 
her  hastily  down  with  an  exclamation  of  pain,  and  put 
his  hand  to  his  face. 

''You've  done  it  now,  Winnie ;  blinded  me,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  Henry,  I  am  so  sorry!'  sobbed  Winnie.  "And 
they  won't  let  me  go  to  Long's  tea-party  to-morrow;  it 
was  only  on  Sunday  I  made  Ingram  Swaynestone's  nose 
bleed."  ' 

"Never  mind,   darling,"   said)  Everard,   kissing  and 
soothing  her;  "it  was  not  your  fault  at  all." 

Then  he  promised  to  let  no  one  know  of  his  black  eye, 
and  to  do  his  best  to  cure  it;  to  which  intent  he  procured 
raw  meat  from  the  kitchen,  and  went  to  his  room,  taking 
Winnie  with  him  to  help  him  unpack  the  parcel,  which 
contained  some  choice  white  flowers.  These  he  bid  the 


I24 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAX  MAITLAND. 


child  take  to  her  sister  at  once,  while  he  shut  himself  up, 
and  tried  to  subdue  the  rising  inflammation  in  the  bruised 
eye  to  the  best  of  his  ability. 

He  was  anxious  to  avoid  such  an  ornament  as  a  black 
eye  on  his  own  account,  as  well  as  the  child's,  since  a 
black  eye  does  not  improve  a  man's  appearance  at  a  ball, 
nor  is  it  in  keeping  with  popular  ideas  of  a  newly  accepted 
lover.  So  he  doctored  himself  till  it  was  time  to  get  ready 
for  dinner,  and  then,  seeing  the  gray  suit  lie  on  the  chair 
as  he  had  placed  it  in  the  morning,  he  sponged  the  green 
stain  away  from  it.  Scarcely  had  he  done  this  when  he 
saw  other  stains,  some  still  wet,  and,  procuring  some  fresh 
water,  sponged  these  also.  The  water  was  red 
when  he  finished. 

"Blood,"  he  thought,  being  well  used  to  such  stains. 
"Did  I  cut  myself  anywhere,  I  wonder?" 

He  did  not,  however,  waste  much  thought  on  thi;j 
trivial  incident,  but  sponged  the  garments  clean  in  hi:; 
tidy  way,  and  left  the  crimsoned  water  in  the  basin,  when; 
it  subsequently  gave  Martha,  the  housemaid,  what  she 
described  as  a  turn.  Then  he  made  his  appearance  in 
the' drawing-room,  carefully  avoiding  the  lights,  and  gave 
rather  a  lame  account  of  himself  since  his  return  from  the 
fruitless  errand  to  the  Widow  Dove's.  He  was  rewarded 
for  his  labors  on  Lilian's  behalf  by  the  sweetest  smile  irt 
the  world,  and  was  enchanted  to  observe  at  dinner  that 
Lilian  wore  one  of  the  white  roses  from  his  bouquet  in  her 
dress. 

Cyril  did  not  appear  at  dinner;  he  sent  word  that  one 
of  his  bad  headaches  had  come  on,  and  begged  that  he 
might  be  undisturbed  for  the  night. 

"Poor  dear  Cyril!"  said  Lilian;  "it  is  so  hard  for  a 
man  to  have  headaches.  His  are  like  mine;  nothing  but 
quiet  heals  them." 

"Their  very  headaches  are  twins,"  Mr.  Maitland 
observed.  "Why,  Henry,"  he  added,  "what  have  you 
done  to  your  eye?  You  appear  to  have  been  in  the  wars, 
man." 

Winnie,  who  was  standing  by  the  fire,  here  threw  an 
imploring  glance  at  Henry,  and  completely  scattered  what 
few  talents  he  had  ever  possessed  for  dissimulation. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


125 


"I — I — I  knocked  my  head  against  something  irr  the 
dark,"  he  stammered;  "I — it  was  purely  accidental." 

"What  a  nasty  blow!'  said  Lilian,  observing  it;  "you 
will  have  a  black  eye.  What  a  pity!  Ah,  sir!  perhaps 
that  accounts  for  your  rudeness  to  me  this  evening." 

"My  rudeness,  Lilian?  What  can  you  mean?"  asked 
Henry. 

"Yes,  your  incivility  to  me,  and  also  to  Mark  Antony, 
who  was  actually  doing  you  the  honor  of  running  to  meet 
you — the  haughty  Mark  himself.  Think  of  that!" 

"I  can  only  apologize  to  both  with  the  deepest  humil- 
ity," he  replied,  stroking  the  petted  animal,  who  was 
dining  with  his  usual  urbane  condescension  at  Lilian's 
side;  "but  indeed  I  am  quite  innocent,  having  seen 
neither  you  nor  puss  since  you  started  for  Swaynestone." 

Then  Lilian  told  how  at  tea-time,  on  passing  from  the 
back  regions  toward  the  drawing-room,  accompanied  by 
her  usual  body-guard,  Mark  Antony,  she  had  seen  Henry 
run  across  the  back-hall  toward  the  staircase;  had  called 
to  him  about  Widow  Dove's  commission;  while  the  cat 
with  a  mew  of  delight,  had  bounded  after  him.  He  had 
rushed  on,  however,  in  the  dusk,  a  gray,  ghost-like  figure 
and  flitted  up  the  stairs  to  his  room,  followed  by  Mark, 
whom  he  expelled  ignominiously,  shutting  the  door  after 
him. 

"You  must  be  under  some  delusion,"  replied  Henry, 
utterly  confounded.  "I  saw  no  cat  when  I  came  in." 

"It  was  growing  very  dark,"  Lilian  said,  "and 
Martha  was  late  in  lighting  the  hall-lamp  to-night,  for 
which,  indeed,  I  afterward  rebuked  her." 

"The  lamps  were  lighted — "  Henry  began,  and  then 
stopped  at  the  sight  of  Winnie,  who  was  gesticulating  in 
an  agonized  manner  behind  her  mother's  chair.  "This 
sounds  extremely  ghost-like,"  he  added;  "I  hope  it 
bodes  me  no  misfortune.  It  must  have  been  my  wraith, 
Lilian." 

"It  sounds  rather  eerie,  certainly/  interposed  Mr. 
Maitland.  "Lilian,  dear,  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to 
take  to  seeing  people's  wraiths.  It  gives  me  the  most 
fearful  jumps  to  think  of  it." 

"I  am  creeping  from  head  to  foot,"  added  Mrs.  Mait- 


126  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

land,  laughing;  "and  on  the  last  night  of  the  year,  too. 
Doctor  Everard,  what  prescriptions  have  you  ior  young 
ladies  who  take  to  ghost-seeing?" 

"I  am  going  to  ask  you  ior  another  cutlet,  sir.  My 
appetite  will  convince  you  that  I,  at  least,  am  no  illusion, 
but  a  substantial  reality,"  said  Henry,  instead  of  reply- 
ing. 

'There  never  was  any  deception  about  you,  Harry 
lad,"  returned  Mr.  Maitland,  cordially;  "you  were  always 
real." 

The  evening  which  ensued  ought  to  have  been  very 
happy,  but  somehow  it  was  not  A  vague  uneasiness  was 
in  the  air;  Cyril's  absence  created  a  void  in  the  family 
party,  and  the  children,  who  were  permitted  to  stay  up 
for  the  New  Year,  grew  tired,  and  consequently  tiresome. 
Mr.  Maitland,  when  he  recovered  from  his  after-dinner 
nap,  which  was  unusually  long,  read  them  one  of 
Dickens's  Christmas  tales,  and  although  it  was  pleasant 
to  Henry  to  sit  by  Lilian  and  watch  her  beautiful  white 
hands  at  their  busy  task  of  embroidering  some  silken 
flowers,  he  was  not  sorry  when,  the  servants  having  been 
assembled  in  the  drawing-room,  a  pleasant  clinking  of 
glasses  was  heard,  and,  the  usual  ceremonies  of  toasting 
and  hand-shaking  gone  through,  the  bells  began  drowsily 
chiming  the  Old  Year  out  from  the  belfry  hard  by. 

They  all  went  into  the  hall  then,  Mr.  Maitland  opened 
the  door  wide  to  let  the  New  Year  in,  and  Lilian  and 
Henry,  hand-in-hand,  gazed  trustfully  out  into  the  starry 
sky  to  meet  it,  their  hearts  full  of  the  sweetest  hopes. 

When  Henry  went  to  his  room  soon  after,  he  could  not 
refrain  from  opening  Cyril's  door,  which  adjoined  his 
own,  and  just  looking  in,  thinking  he  might  be  asleep. 
He  pushed  the  door  very  softly,  and  introduced  his  head. 
Only  a  faint  light  was  burning  from  one  candle,  and  by 
this  dim  ray  he  saw  Cyril  kneeling  half-dressed  before  a 
picture  of  the  Crucifixion.  His  face  was  hidden  in  his 
hands,  and  he  was  sobbing  in  a  low,  suppressed  way. 

Henry  shut  the  door  softly,  and  stealthily  withdrew, 
vexed  at  his  own  intrusion.  "That  is  not  the  way  to 
cure  th?  headache,"  he  mused,  half  awed  at  the  manner 
in  which  the  young  priest  received  the  New  Year.  Yet 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  wj 

who  could  venture  to  say  that  watching  and  fasting 
and  tearful  contrition  were  not  eminently  fitting,  in  one 
set  apart  for  holy  functions,  at  such  a  season?  "I  won- 
der," Everard  continued  to  speculate,  "what  infinitesimal 
peccadilloes  the  poor  lad  is  mourning,  with  all  that 
expenditure  of  nervous  energy?"  Then  he  thought  of 
his  own  weaknesses  and  shortcomings,  and  felt  pitchy 
black  in  contrast  with  a  soul  so  white. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  wheelwright's  house  stood  just  on  the  crest  of  the 
steep  little  hill  which  carries  the  pilgrim  down  into  the 
village  of  Malbourne  with  a  rapid  acceleration  of  pace, 
and  which  ends  where  the  four  roads  meet.  The  Sun 
Inn  stands  at  one  corner,  facing  the  incoming  pilgrim 
cheerfully  on  its  left;  and  opposite  this  tidy  hostelry 
stands  a  sign-post  apparently  waving  four  gaunt  amis 
distractedly,  and  seeming  to  bid  the  wayfarer  pause 
beneath  the  thatched  roof  of  the  little  inn,  whether  his 
journey's  end  lie  onward  over  the  high-road,  or  oblige 
him  to  turn  aside  through  the  village  by  church  and 
Rectory. 

On  the  traveller's  right,  facing  him,  is  a  cottage,  and 
facing  that  is  the  wheelwright's  yard,  full  of  timber  and 
wagons  half  built  or  broken.  The  wheelwright's  dwell- 
ing, standing  above  the  grassy  yard,  commands  a  fine 
view  of  the  village  nestled  under  the  down,  and  the 
sweeping  parklands  of  Northover  on  one  side,  and  on  the 
other  looks  over  an  undulating  landscape  to  the  sea.  It 
is  a  cheery  little  house,  pleasantly  shaded  by  a  couple  of 
shapely  lindens  in  front,  and  close  to  the  high-road, 
upon  which  its  front  windows  and  deep-timbered  porch 
give. 

On  New  Year's  Eve  the  wheelwright's  windows  were 
all  lighted  up,  and  there  was  even  a  lantern  at  the  little 
front  wicket,  which  gazed  out  like  a  friendly  eye,  as  if 


I28  THE  SILEXCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

to  bid  people  enter  and  make  merry  within,  and  threw  4 
yellow  fan-shaped  radiance  on  the  steep  road  without 
The  porch  door  was  open,  and  disclosed  a  passage  lighted 
by  a  candle  in  a  tin  sconce  adorned  with  holly.  On  one 
side,  an  open  door  revealed  the  chill  dignities  of  the  best 
parlor,  which  not  even  a  blazing  fire  and  abundance  of 
holly  berries  could  quite  warm. 

On  a  hair-cloth  sofa  in  this  state  department  sat  Mrs. 
Hale,  of  Malbourne  Mill,  and  Mrs.  Wax,  the  schoolmas- 
ter's wife,  both  exceedingly  upright,  and  both  holding  a 
handkerchief  of  Gargantuan  dimensions  over  the  handi 
they  crossed  in  their  laps.  Opposite,  in  a  horse-hair  arm- 
chair, sat  an  elderly  lady  in  a  plum-colored  silk  gown, 
gold  chain,  and  a  splendid  cap,  also  very  upright,  and 
also  holding  a  Gargantuan  handkerchief.  This  was  Mrs.. 
Cave,  the  wife  of  a  small  farmer  in  the  neighborhood. 

Each  lady's  face  wore  a  resigned  expression,  mingled 
with  the  calm  exultation  natural  to  people  who  know 
themselves  to  be  the  most  aristocratic  persons*  in  a  social 
gathering.  Each  realized  that  Wurde  hat  Burde,  and  felt 
herself  equal  to  the  occasion;  each  paused,  before  mak- 
ing or  replying  to  an  observation,  to  consider  the  most 
genteel  subjects  of  conversation  and  the  most  genteel 
language  in  which  to  clothe  them. 

"Remarkably  fine  weather  for  this  time  of  year,  ladies," 
observed  Mrs.  Hale,  soothing  her  soul  by  the  pleasant 
rustle  her  shot-silk  gown  made  when  she  smoothed  it, 
and  regretting  that  her  gold  chain  was  not  so  new-fash- 
ioned as  Mrs.  Cave's;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  she 
experienced  a  delicious  comfort  in  meditating  on  the 
superiority  of  her  brooch,  which  was  a  large  flat  pebble  in 
a  gold  frame. 

"Indeed,  mem,  it  is  most  seasonable,  though  trying 
for  delicate  chests,"  returned  Mrs.  Cave,  with  her  finest 
company  smile,  after  which  a  pause  of  three  minutes 
ensued. 

"Some  say  the  frost  is  on  the  breek,"  continued  Mrs. 
Hale,  wondering  if  it  would  be  genteel  to  ask  Mrs.  Cave 
how  much  her  cap  cost  She  had  an  agonized  suspicion 
that  it  would  not 

After  five  minutes,   Mrs.  Wax,  whose  comparative 


TBS  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAN8 


129 


youth  and  lower  rank  occasioned  her  some  diffidence, 
took  up  her  parable  in  the  following  genteel  manner: 
"Her  ladyship  was  observing  this  marning — " 

But  what  her  ladyship  was  observing  was  never  re- 
vealed to  man,  since,  at  that  moment,  Widow  Hale,  the 
host's  mother,  came  bursting  in,  stout,  healthy,  and  red- 
faced,  her  cap  slightly  awry,  and  called  out  in  her  hearty 
wholesome  voice — 

"Well,  now,  my  dears,  and  how  are  you  getting  on? 
I'm  that  harled  up  with  so  many  about,  I  ain't  had  a 
rninute  to  ast  after  ye  all.  Mary  Ann,  my  dear,  give  me 
a  kiss  do,  and  a  hearty  welcome  to  you  all,  and  a  kiss  all 
round,  and  do  make  yourselves  at  home.  Now,  is  the 
tea  to  your  liking?  This  best  tea-pot  ain't  much  at  draw- 
ing. I  ain't  much  of  a  one  for  best  things  myself;  well 
enough  for  looking  at,  and  just  to  say  you've  got  them, 
but  give  me  work-a-day  things  for  comfort.  There  ain't 
above  half  the  company  come  yet,  and  Mary  Ann  upset 
the  pies  for  supper.  Do  just  as  you  would  at  home,  and 
you  will  please  me.  If  there  ain't  dear  old  Granfer  com- 
ing in,  bless  his  heart!  Come  in,  Granfer,  and  kindly 
welcome." 

And  so  saying,  the  kind  soul  bustled  out  and  relieved 
Granfer  of  his  hat,  while  her  daughter-in-law,  the  actual 
hostess,  came  to  do  the  honors  of  the  best  parlor,  bring- 
ing in  three  more  female  guests  of  distinction,  who  were 
much  awed  by  the  appalling  gentility  jf  the  three  already 
assembled,  and  a  little  inclined  to  regret  their  own  social 
importance. 

Granfer  and  the  widow,  in  the  mean  time,  entered  the 
great  kitchen,  a  long,  low,  whitewashed  room,  with 
heavy  beams  across  the  ceiling,  a  stone  floor,  and  a  wide 
hearth  with  a  wood  fire  burning  between  dogs  upon  it. 
The  ceiling  and  walls  wore  their  everyday  decoration  of 
hams,  guns,  a  spit,  various  cooking  utensils,  a  tiny  book- 
shelf, and  a  large  dresser,  well  garnished  with  crockery 
and  pewters,  together  with  their  festal  Christmas  adorn- 
ing of  holly,  fir,  and  mistletoe,  and  a  round  dozen  of  tin 
sconces  bearing  tallow  candles.  There  was  an  oaken  set- 
tle on  one  side  of  the  chimney  corner,  in  the  coziest  nook 
of  which  Granfer  deposited  his  bent  form  w.;th  a  sigh  oi 


130  fti£!  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

content,  and  gazed  around  upon  the  assembled  guests 
with   benevolence. 

On  a  long  table  on  trestles  at  one  end  of  the  room  was 
spread  a  solid  meal,  consisting  of  a  huge  ham,  own 
brother  to  those  depending  in  rich-  brown  abundance 
from  the  ceiling,  a  south-country  skim-milk  cheese, 
finely  marbled  with  greenish  blue  veins,  and  resembling 
Stilton  in  reduced  circumstances;  a  great  yellow  and 
brown  mass  of  roast  beef;  a  huge  pie;  several  big  brown 
blocks  of  plum-cake;  and  some  vast  loaves  of  white 
home-baked  bread  and  pats  of  fresh  butter.  The  forks 
were  of  steel,  and  black  handled  like  the  knives;  and  the 
spoons,  of  which  there  was  a  dearth,  were  pewter.  A 
deficiency  of  tea-cups  suggested  to  Corporal  Tom  Hale 
the  agreeable  expedient  of  sharing  one  between  a  lady 
and  a  gentleman,  which  was  hailed  with  applause  by  his 
naval  brother,  and  immediately  acted  upon. 

For  those  guests  who  looked  upon  tea  as  an  enervating 
beverage,  there  was  ample  provision  in  the  shape  of 
various  brown  and  yellow  jugs  filled  with  ale  from  the 
cask  Tom  and  Jim  had  procured  for  the  occasion;  and  it 
was  generally  understood  that  liquor  of  a  still  more  com- 
forting nature  was  held  in  reserve  to  stimulate  conviviality 
at  a  late  hour.  The  blacksmith,  Straun,  the  clerk, 
Stevens,  with  their  wives  and  families,  were  there;  also 
Baines,  the  discontented  tailor,  and  the  husbands  of  the 
best-parlor  ladies. 

The  wheelwright's  wife,  a  comely  woman  of  thirty,  and 
his  sister,  a  blooming  damsel  some  ten  years  younger, 
ran  to  and  fro  with  flushed  faces  among  the  guests, 
while  the  widow  made  herself  ubiquitous. 

The  uniforms  of  Tom  and  Jim,  with  those  of  three  or 
four  artillerymen  from  the  neighboring  forts,  and  the  red 
coats  of  a  couple  of  linesmen,  together  with  the  bright 
ribbons  of  the  women,  lent  color  and  variety  to  the 
monotony  of  black  coats  and  smock-frocks,  and  upon 
the  whole  the  wheelwright's  kitchen  presented  as  cheery 
and  animated  a  sight  as  one  would  wish  to  see  on  a  New 
Year's  Eve.  Nor  was  a  town  element  wanting  in  the  rus- 
tic gathering;  for  just  as  tea  was  in  ful  swing,  and  little 
Dickie  Stevens — whose  tea  lay  in  the  future,  after  the 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


131 


serving  of  his  elders — was  supplying  the  place  of  a  band 
by  playing  hymn-tunes  on  his  concertina,  a  taxed-cart 
drove  up,  and  deposited  two  chilled  mortals  from  Oldport, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wells,  green-grocers,  and  related,  by  some 
inextricable  family  complications  known  only  in  that 
remote  south-country  district,  more  or  less  to  nearly  all 
the  company. 

Tea  being  finished,  pipes  were  produced,  also  ale,  and 
there  was  wild  work  in  a  dimly  lighted  quarter  of  the 
kitchen,  where  the  Hale  brothers  had  cunningly  arranged 
unexpected  mistletoe,  and  whence  smothered  shrieks  of 
laughter  and  sounds  as  of  ears  being  vigorously  boxed 
issued  every  now  and  then. 

The  odd  part  about  the  mistletoe  business  was  the  ex- 
treme gullibility  of  the  ladies,  who  were  by  far  too  guile- 
less to  profit  by  the  experience  of  others  in  that  dangerous 
region,  and  suffered  themselves  to  be  decoyed  thither  on 
the  flimsiest  pretext,  and  betrayed  the  utmost  surprise 
and  indignation  at  the  kissing  which  invariably  ensued. 
As  for  Tom  and  Jim,  they  went  to  work  with  a  business- 
like determination  to  kiss  every  girl  in  the  room,  and 
several  respectable  matrons  into  the  bargain.  It  was 
ubout  this  time  that  the  artillery  sergeant  and  the  wheel- 
wright's pretty  sister  Patty  vanished,  and  were  subse- 
quently discovered  at  the  front  door,  enjoying  the  soft 
December  breeze  and  studying  astronomy,  a  study  which 
produced  the  happiest  subsequent  results,  and  set  the 
Malbourne  bells  chiming  in  the  spring  of  the  coming 
year. 

So  large  and  successful  a  party  had  not  been  held  in 
Malbourne  for  many  a  year,  the  predominance  of  the 
military  element  greatly  contributing  to  its  success;  for 
the  sons  of  Mar  excelled  not  only  in  the  art  of  pleasing 
'the  fairer  sex,  which  has  in  all  ages  been  considered  their 
special  function,  but  possessed  many  other  accomplish- 
ments of  social  value.  A  very  pretty  bit  of  fencing  was 
exhibited  between  a  red  and  a  blue  coat,  and  Corporal 
Tom  snuffed  candles  with  a  pistol,  amid  shrieks  of  terrified 
delight  from  the  women.  One  soldier  sang  a  comic 
another  a  sentimental  song;  and  when  little  Dick  Stevens 
was  perched  on  a  table,  and  warbled  out,  "Rosalie,  the 


132  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

Prairie  Flower,"  and  "Wait  far  the  Wagon,"  to  the 
accompaniment  of  Wax's  clarionet  and  Baine's  violin, 
the  kitchen  ceiling  trembled  and  threatened  to  drop  its 
quivering  hams  and  hollies  at  the  powerful  chorus  fur- 
nished by  these  stalwart  warriors,  and  the  gentility  of  the 
best  parlor  was  finally  melted  by  it  to  such  a  deliques- 
cence as  to  mingle  freely  with  the  vulgar  currents  circulat- 
ing in  the  kitchen. 

Indeed,  village  talent  was  quite  in  the  shade  during  the 
first  part  of  the  evening,  and  the  discreet  Corporal  Tom 
observed  such  depreciation  on  the  faces  of  the  village 
geniuses  that  he  resolved  to  put  off  asking  for  the  recita- 
tion with  which  he  knew  a  certain  warrior  to  be  primed 
until  a  later  hour,  and  created  a  diversion  by  proposing  a 
game  of  Turn  the  Trencher,  which  absorbed  the  children 
and  younger  people  at  one  end  of  the  room,  and  left  the 
circle  of  elders  round  the  chimney  free  to  converse  or  visit 
the  best  parlor,  where  fruit  and  sherry  wine  were  laid  out, 
as  they  pleased. 

"I  seen  young  Mr.  Maitland  in  Oldport,  to-day,"  ob- 
served the  town  green-grocer's  lady,  one  of  the  fireside 
circle,  by  way  of  furnishing  the  town  news  to  her  rustic 
friends. 

"Now,  did  you,  Mrs.  Wells?"  returned  the  host.  "Ah! 
so  you  zeen  he?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Hale ;  I  seen  him  go  into  the  bank  opposite, 
and  stay  there — oh!  I  should  think  a  good  hour,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Wells,  adjusting  her  cap-ribbons  with  a  com- 
placent sense  of  their  splendor.  "He's  grown  more  per- 
sonable than  ever;  but  he  do  look  ill,  poor  young  gentle- 
man, to  be  sure — that  white  and  thin !" 

"That's  living  in  Lunnun,"  said  Hale;  "Lunnun  takes 
it  out  of  a  man.  I  never  held  with  going  to  Lunnun  my- 
self. Never  knowed  any  good  come  of  it." 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  everything,  Jacob  Hale!"  said 
Granfer,  benevolently.  "Tain't,  zo  to  zay,  nateral  to  a 
man  as  gives  hisself  entirely  to  wheels.  You  doos  your 
best,  but  more  zense  can't  come  out  of  ye  than  the 
Almighty  has  put  in.  Na-a.  You  don't  know  every- 
thing, Jacob  Hale,  I  zay." 

The  profundity  of  this  remark  produced  a  deep  impres- 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  133 

sion,  particularly  upon  the  wheelwright,  who  appeared  to 
think  he  had  received  a  great  compliment  from  Granfer, 
and  rekindled  his  pipe  at  the  burning  gorge  on  the  hearth 
with  a  beatified  air. 

"Zeems  as  though  zummat  had  been  a-taking  of  it  out 
of  Mr.  Cyril,"  observed  the  blacksmith,  thoughtfully. 

"Tain't,  zo  to  zay,  Lunnun,  Jarge  Straun,"  replied 
Granfer,  solemnly,  "No  Jarge  Straun;  'tain't  Lunnon, 
as  you  med  zay.  I  zes  to  Bill  Stevens's  marning,  I  zays, 
'Bill,'  I  zay,  zays  I,  'brains  is  the  matter  wi'  Mr.  Cyril/ 
I  zays,  'that's  what's  the  matter  wi'  he;'"  and  Granfer's 
keen  gray  eyes  took  a  survey  of  all  the  listening,  stolid 
faces,  and  he  experienced  a  keen  sense  of  enjoyment,  as 
he  leaned  forward,  his  hands  crossed  on  his  staff,  and 
felt  that  he  was  getting  into  regular  conversational 
swing.  "Ay,  that's  what  I  zed,  zure  enough,"  he  added. 

"Brains!"  repeated  Straun,  thoughtfully.  "I  never 
yeard  of  nobody  dying  of  brains,  as  I  knows  on." 

"You  ain't  a-yeared  everythink.  Jarge  Straun,"  re- 
turned Granfer,  severely.  "Ay,  you  med  mark  my 
words,  it  all  hruns  to  brains  wi'  Mr.  Cyril;  there  ain't,  as 
you  med  zay,  nothing  left  to  hrun  to  vlesh  and  vat,  what- 
ever he  med  put  inside  of  hisself.  Mankind  is  like  the 
viewer  o'  the  vield;  where  it  all  hruns  to  vlower,  there 
ain't,  zo  to  zay,  zo  much  leaf  as  .you  med  swear  by;  then, 
again,  I  tell  'ee,  where  it  all  hruns  to  leaf,  you  can't  expect 
no  vlower  to  speak  on.  Look  at  brocoli!" 

Here  Granfer,  being  fairly  launched,  struck  out 
from  personal  to  general  observations,  and  thence,  at  the 
prompting  of  his  grandson,  to  the  hoary  regions  of  his- 
tory. 

"Ay,  minds  Boney,  to  be  zure — well  I  minds  he;"  and 
he  related  the  oft-told  tale  of  the  frequent  scares  the 
inhabitants  of  those  coasts  received,  sometimes  by  authen- 
tic rumors  of  Bonaparte's  appearance  at  sea,  sometimes 
by  the  accidental  or  mistaken  kindling  of  the  beacons  on 
every  prominent  headland  and  on  the  downs,  where  a 
watch  was  kept  day  and  night  for  the  appearance  of  the 
dreaded  foe. 

He  told  how  the  wealthy  farmers  sent  their  silver  and 
other  valuables,  sometimes  including  even  their  women 


134 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND 


and  children  under  the  latter  head,  inland  for  safety — most 
of  them,  apparently,  having  first  consulted  Granfer  on 
the  subject — in  consequence  of  Bonaparte's  runinnjd 
descents  on  that  fated  coast;  also  of  the  rousing  of  the 
volunteers  at  the  dead  of  night  on  one  of  these  occasions 
— of  their  march  to  the  sea-shore,  and  their  all  getting 
lost  on  the  way,  and  arriving  next  morning  on  a  scene  of 
profound  peace.  Then  came  the  great  smuggler  story, 
and  the  tragic  history  of  the  loss  of  the  ship  "Halifax," 
the  crew  and  passengers  of  which  lay  buried  in  the  wind 
swept  churchyard  near  the  fatal  shore  which  wrecked 
them.  Five  young  women  were  among  those  washed 
ashore  and  subsequently  buried,  and  their  appearance,  as» 
Granfer  saw  them,  lying  pale  and  beautiful  side  by  side? 
awaiting  burial,  was  the  climax  of  his  story;  after 
delivering  it  he  usually  paused  and  looked  around  for 
some  moments  with  working  lips  to  enjoy  the  silence  ofl 
the  interested  listeners. 

Having  thus  got  his  audience,  which  consisted  mainly 
of  village  seniors,  well  in  hand,  Granfer  began,  to  the 
accompaniment  of  the  young  people's  continuous  laugh- 
ter, somewhat  softened  by  distance,  to  play  upon  their 
love  of  the  marvellous  and  the  horrible,  and  produced 
some  delightful  creeps  by  his  eerie  tales;  and  finally 
landed  himself  in  his  renowned  narrative  of  his  midnight 
adventure  upon  Down  End,  a  bleak,  storm-stricken 
eminence,  where  the  last  man  gibbeted  in  these  parts,  a 
truculent  villain,  with  a  most  romantic  history,  then 
swung  in  chains. 

Granfer  had  been  belated  on  a  moonless,  cloudy  night, 
had  wandered  far  in  the  cutting  wind,  and  had  begun  to 
guess  that  he  had  at  last  done  with  the  downs,  and 
reached  the  well-known  Down  End — an  unpleasant  spot 
for  a  midnight  stroll,  since,  besides  the  unwelcome 
presence  of  the  murderer  on  his  gibbet,  an  extensive  chalk 
quarry  there  supplied  an  array  of  little  precipices  high 
enough  to  cost  one  slipping  over  the  edge  his  life. 

Granfer  had  arrived  at  a  vague  mass  looming  through 
the  darkness,  a  dim  something,  which  he  conjectured  to 
be  the  sign-post,  an  erection  which  shared  the  same  emi- 
nence with  the  gibbet  at  many  yards  distance  from  it, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND 


135 


and  \vas  about  to  strike  a  light  with  the  flint  and  steel  in 
his  pocket  to  a  weird  accompaniment  of  shrieks  and 
moans  and  unholy  riot  of  clakings  and  hissings,  which 
might  be  only  the  voices  of  the  midnight  storm,  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  might  be  what  Granfer  wisely  left  to  his 
hearers'  imaginations,  when  "all  on  a  zuddent  there 
conies  a  girt  bang  on  the  shoulders  of  me,  vlint  and  steel 
vlies  out  of  my  hands,  and  down  I  goos,  vlat  as  a  vloun- 
der  on  my  vaace,  wi'  zummat  atop  o'  me,"  the  old  man 
was  saying,  his  wrinkled  face  and  keen  eyes  lighted  by  the 
blazing  gorse  fife  and  his  own  imagination,  while  Straun 
and  Hale,  and  the  other  worthies,  with  open  mouths, 
staring  eyes,  and  dropped  pipes,  and  the  women,  with 
various  contortions  of  visage  and  extensive  clasping  of 
shivering  hands,  gazed  with  tense,  strained  attention 
upon  the  withered,  eager  countenance,  when  the  door 
burst  open,  and  "William  Grove,  supported  by  Corporal 
Tom,  staggered  into  the  kitchen,  white-faced  and  trem- 
bling, and  fell  into  a  chair  placed  for  him  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  clapping  his  hands  convulsively  upon  his 
knees,  and  exclaiming  at  intervals,  "Oh,  Lard!  Oh, 
Lard  'a  massy!"  and  tlie  sudden  apparition,  coming  thus 
upon  strained  nerves  and  excited  imaginations,  produced 
a  most  alarming  effect. 

The  women  screamed  and  clung  to  one  another;  the 
men  tittered  ejaculations;  the  game  of  Turn  the  Trencher 
broke  up  in  dismay,  and  the  plavers  came  clusterng 
round  the  distracted  Grove;  while  the  services  of  the 
military  were  called  into  requisition  to  soothe  the  terrors 
and  agitations  of  the  prettiest  girls,  the  gallant  sergeant 
finding  it  necessary  to  place  his  arm  round  the  blooming 
form  of  Miss  Patty  Hale  for  the  distressed  damsel's 
support. 

"Lard  'a  massey!  Willum  Grove,"  exclaimed  Granfer 
at  last,  with  impatience,  "if  you  ain't  got  nothink  better 
to  zay  than  Lard  'a  massey,  you  med  zo  well  bide  quiet,  I 
tell  'ee.  Lard  love  'ee,  Willum,  you  never  had  no  zense 
to  speak  on,  but  you  be  clane  dunch  now.  Av,  Willum 
be  clane  dunch,"  he  added;  while  the  astute  Tom,  who 
said  that  Willian  had  come  flying  in  at  the  porch  door 
(where  the  gallant  corporal  had  been  helping  pretty  Miss 


136  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

Cave  to  admire  the  moon),  and  could  be  prevailed  upon 
to  make  no  other  observation  than  that  so  scornfully 
censured  by  Granfer,  assisted  the  wagoner's  faculties  by  a 
timely  draught  of  ale.  After  disposing  of  this,  and  dry- 
ing his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  William  re- 
covered slightly  and  found  his  tongue.  . 

"Lard  'a  massey  on  us  all!"  he  cried;  "they  been  an' 
done  for  poor  Ben  Lee." 

"Done  for  him!"  cried  a  chorus  of  voices  in  various 
tones  of  horror  and  dismay. 

"Done  var  en,  zure  enough!"  repeated  William,  rock- 
ing himself  backward  and  forward,  in  a  strange  contrast 
to  his  usual  stolidity.  "We  bin  an'  vound  the  body!" 

It  was  even  so.  Ben  Lee  left  his  home  at  dinner-time, 
and  had  not  returned.  At  tea-time,  Mrs.  Lee  was  re- 
turning in  the  dusk  from  an  errand  to  Malbourne,  and 
met  a  hurrying  figure  clad  in  gray,  as  she  came  through 
the  fields  beneath  the  wood,  which  was  on  the  crest  of  the 
hill  above  the  Temple.  She  found  only  Alma  in  the 
house,  and  after  waiting  with  more  discontent  than  dis- 
quiet, she  concluded  that  work  had  delayed  her  husband, 
and  finally  took  her  tea  and  seated  herself  at  her  needle- 
work by  the  fire. 

At  half-past  seven  Sir  Lionel  and  Lady  Swaynestone, 
with  their  daughter,  were  dressed  for  a  dinner  party  and 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  carriage,  which  had  been 
ordered  at  that  hour.  But  no  carriage  appeared,  and  a 
message  to  the  stables  elicited  the  news  that  the  coach- 
man had  not  been  there  since  the  afternoon,  when 
Ingrain  Swaynestone  chanced  to  have  seen  him  near  his 
home.  A  messenger  to  the  Temple  returned  with  the 
tiding  that  he  had  not  been  home;  and  then  Judkins 
asked  for  an  audience  with  Sir  Lionel,  which  resulted  in 
a  search-party  being  sent  forth  to  find  the  missing  man, 
whose  habits  were  regular  and  punctual. 

William  Grove,  who  chanced  to  be  on  some  errand  to 
Swaynestone  for  his  master  before  going  to  the  wheel- 
wright's party,  assisted  in  the  search,  and  was  with 
Judkins  when  Lee  was  discovered  quite  dead  in  the  wood 
above  his  home.  There  were  no  signs  of  any  struggle 
on  the  hard  frozen  path,  whence  his  body  had  evidently 


TES  filLENCE  OF  DEAN  MA.ITLANU 


J37 


been  dragged  into  the  fern  and  brush,  whither  it  was 
triced  by  the  marks  on  the  rime-covered  moss  and  the 
disorder  of  the  ferns  and  brambles.  A  slight  wound  on 
the  face,  which  had  bled,  but  could  not  have  killed  him, 
was  the  only  sign  of  violence  at  first  seen. 

The  lights  were  not  extinguished  at  Swaynestone 
House  till  nearly  dawn.  Sir  Lionel,  who  was  a  magis- 
trate, set  to  work  at  once  to  investigate  the  fatal  affair, 
the  police  were  immediately  informed,  and  every  mem- 
ber of  the  Swaynestone  household  was  closely  questioned, 
as  well  as  Mrs.  Lee.  Poor  Alma  could  not  be  subjected 
to  much  interrogation,  and  was  not  in  a  position  to  throw 
any  light  upon  the  tragedy.  Death  was  not  the  only 
visitor  at  the  Temple;  a  new  life,  scarcely  less  tragic 
than  death,  began  there  on  that  fatal  night,  and  the  New 
Year  rose  upon  sorrow  and  dismay  in  hall  and  cottage. 

It  took  long  to  extract  what  he  knew  of  the  affair  from 
William  Grove,  but  this  was  at  length  accomplished,  amid 
varied  comment  and  ejaculation.  Granfer  said  no 
further  word  until  the  whole  truth  had  been  elicited,  and 
then  upon  the  firsv  favorable  pause  he  looked  around  with 
an  air  of  great  solemnity,  and  took  up  his  parable  thus: 
"You  med  all  mark  my  words.  Zomebodyll  hae  to 
swing  for  this  yere.  Ay,  I've  said  it,  and  I'll  zay  it  agen: 
zomebody'll  hae  to  swing." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Next  to  the  divine  sweetness  of  youthful  love,  nothing 

so  completely  charms  and  enthralls  us  as  the  rapid  devel- 
opment of  new  ideas  and  the  swift  inrush  of  fresh  knowl- 
edge in  the  spring-time  of  life.  How  the  world  widens 
to  the  eager  student,  what  vast  and  endless  horizons  open 
out  to  his  gaze,  as  he  acquires  fresh  knowledge !  What  a 
sense  of  power  his  thoughts  give  him  as  they  draw  to- 
gether from  the  vague  of  scattered  speculations,  and 
take  definite  shape  before  him!  Love  unlocks  the  gate 
of  a  yet  undiscovered  world  of  emotion,  which  has  its 


I38  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  AfAITLAND. 

higher  and  lower  circles,  its  purgatory  and  paradise,  and 
its  endless  posibilities  beyond;  knowledge  and  ripening 
thought  rend  the  obscuring  veils  from  the  illimitable  uni- 
verse. The  enthusiastic  delight  of  fresh  discovery  is  in 
both  cases  the  very  elixir  of  life;  nay,  it  is  life  itself. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  year,  Everard  discovered  the  new 
world  of  love;  and  on  New  Year's  morning,  under  the 
stimulus  of  a  fresh  happiness,  a  theory,  after  which  he 
had  long  been  groping  with  many  a  vague  surmise  and 
hazardous  hypothesis,  interrupted  by  hopeless  gaps  in 
evidence,  suddenly  revealed  itelf  complete  and  flawless 
before  him.  It  came  like  an  electric  shock,  with  such  a 
happy  flash  of  inspiration  that  he  was  obliged  to  pause  in 
his  dressing  to  take  in  the  results  of  the  unconscious  cer- 
ebration which  his  studies  and  speculations  had  set  up, 
while  tears  of  joy  rushed  to  his  eyes.  Clear  and  distinct 
as  it  was  to  his  own  mind,  he  knew  that  years  of  patient 
labor  and  minute  scientific  investigations  must  pass 
before  he  could  present  it  to  other  minds,  but  he  knew 
also  that,  once  verified,  it  would  make  an  epoch  in  the 
study  of  physiology. 

Such  a  perabundance  of  happiness  as  Everard's 
might  well  excite  the  malignity  of  envious  gods,  and 
would  have  prompted  an  ancient  Greek  to  throw  away 
some  precious  thing  in  all  haste.  But  being  a  Christian 
Englishman,  Everard  did  not  follow  the  example  of 
Polycrates;  nay,  had  he  been  a  Greek  of  old  days,  he 
would  never  have  imputed  envy  or  malignity  to  the  strong 
immortals.  Strength  was  to  him  a  guarantee  of  good- 
ness, because  his  strength  made  him  noble  and  kind; 
it  made  him  also  pitiful  to  the  malice  and  spite  of  weak 
things. 

Full  of  this  new  rapture,  his  eyes  hazy  with  abstrac- 
tion, as  the  eyes  of  dreamers  are  hazy  with  dreams, 
Everard  went  forth  to  meet  the  New  Year's  new  joy  like 
one  borne  upon  clouds,  and  reached  the  breakfast-room 
just  at  the  end  of  prayers.  Mr.  Maitland,  according  to 
custom,  was  dismissing  the  maids  with  a  kind  good- 
morning  and  New  Year's  wish,  when  Eliza,  whose  face 
was  stained  with  tears,  paused  with  a  spasmodic,  "Oh, 
please,  sirl" 


TBS  SILENCE  OF  DEJLX  MAITLAND.  139 

"You  are  discomposed,  Eliza,"  said  Mr.  Maitland, 
gently,  while  he  looked  round  and  observed  similar  per- 
turbation on  the  faces  of  the  other  maids.  "Nothing 
wrong,  I  hope." 

"Poor  Ben  Lee!"  sobbed  Eliza,  resorting  to  her  hand- 
kerchief. 

"He  was  found  dead,  sir,"  added  Martha  the  house- 
maid, her  grief,  which  was  sincere,  tempered  by  a  certain 
delight  in  the  tragically  impressive." 

"It  was  Stevens  brought  the  news,"  added  the  cook, 
who  was  also  not  impervious  to  the  pleasure  of  communi- 
cating disastrous  intelligence. 

"Found  dead!  My  good  girls!  In  Heaven's  name 
where?  when?  Oh,  surely  not!  Where  is  Stevens?" 
cried  Mr.  Maitland,  as  much  agitated  as  the  heart  of 
woman  could  desire.  "Oh  those  poor  Lees!  What 
trouble!  what  trouble!" 

"It  was  last  night,  sir,"  continued  Eliza,  much  re- 
freshed by  her  master's  perturbation,  and  by  the 
copious  tears  with  which  she  had  accompanied  the  broken 
narrative.  "Sir  Lionel  had  lanterns  sent  out  for 
him." 

"He  did  not  die  in  his  bed,  then?"  the  deep  voice  of 
Everard  broke  in. 

"He  was  hid  away  in  the  wood,"  replied  Martha;  "and 
they  do  say — " 

"I  must  go  the  the  Temple  at  once,"  interrupted  Mr. 
Maitland,  starting  off  to  get  his  hat,  with  an  injunction 
to  the  women  not  to  talk  over  the  tragedy,  which  he 
might  as  well  have  addressed  to  the  wind. 

Lilian  with  great  difficulty  succeeded  in  keeping  him 
back  until  she  had  made  him  drink  some  coffee,  and  take 
a  little  food,  when  he  started  off  at  railroad  speed,  bidding 
her  tell  the  clerk  there  would  be  no  service  that  morning. 
Then  Henry  and  Lilian  and  the  two  children  sat  down  to 
a  melancholy  breakfast,  and  the  discussion  of  the  tragedy 
of  which  they  gathered  from  the  servants  as  much  as 
William  Grove  had  communicated  on  the  previous  night, 
together  with  a  fine  growth  of  conjecture  and  exaggera- 
tion. 

"Poor  Alma!"  sighed   Lilian,   when   her   father   was 


140 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


gone.     "Oh,  Henry!  what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"I  am  afraid  it  looks  rather  dark,"  returned  Henry, 
not  observing  the  entrance  of  Eliza  with  a  hot  dish. 
"Lee's  behavior,  when  last  I  saw  him,  was  most  unac- 
countable. His  trouble  evidently  preyed  on  his  mind, 
poor  fellow." 

"Oh,  Henry!  what  do  you  mean?     Not — " 

"An  unhinged  mind  quickly  turns  to  suicide,"  replied 
Henry,  suddenly  checking  himself  as  he  became  aware  of 
the  wide  gaze  of  Winnie's  eyes  immediately  opposite  him. 

Five  minutes  after,  the  whole  of  Malbourne  knew  that 
Dr.  Everard  had  received  the  intelligence  with  little  sur- 
prise, and  at  once  ascribed  it  to  suicide. 

Cyril  had  started  for  Woodlands  before  breakfast,  leav- 
ing a  charming  note  of  New  Year's  wishes  for  everybody, 
and  saying  it  was  incumbent  on  him  to  go  to  Wood- 
lands at  once,  to  apologize  for  his  incivility  in  not  meet- 
ing Marion  on  the  previous  day. 

"What  a  devoted  lover!"  Mr.  Maitland  had  observed, 
on  hearing  the  note  read.  "Well,  man  has  but  one 
spring-time,  though  the  birds  renew  their  youth  every 
year." 

"I  think,  papa,"  said  Winnie,  in  one  of  those  sudden 
visitations  of  acuteness  which  befall  little  girls  occasion- 
ally, "that  Cyril  is  not  so  devoted  to  loving  as  to  being 
loved." 

And  Lilian  knew  that  the  child  had  hit  on  her  brother's 
weak  point 

After  breakfast,  Everard  accompanied  Lilian  and  the 
chifdren  on  a  visit  to  the  invalid  donkey  and  other  dumb 
dependents.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  Lilian  in  the  poultry- 
yard.  When  she  entered  the  yard  she  gave  a  little  coo, 
and  a  flock  of  pigeons,  preening  themselves  aloft  on 
gable  and  roof  in  the  sunshine,  came  fluttering  down,  a 
rustling  crowd  of  white  wings,  and  settled  upon  her  till 
she  seemed  a  parody  on  Lot's  wife,  a  pillar  of  birds  in- 
stead of  salt,  while  the  more  adventurous  fowls  sprung  up 
and  pecked  the  grain  from  her  basket  and  her  hands,  till 
she  scattered  pigeons,  fowls,  and  all,  with  a  light  "Hish!" 
and  wave  of  her  arms. 

Everard,  the  children,  and  the  two  dogs  stood  apart  to 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DBAff  MAITLAVD.  14* 

watch  this  little  scene,  Everard  smoking  tranquilly,  and 
delighting  in  the  picture  of  Lilian  involved  in  her  cloud 
of  dove-like  wings.  During  this  progress  he  told  her 
eagerly  of  the  theory  which  had  been  born  in  his  brain 
that  morning,  and  they  both  discussed  it,  Lilian  being 
sufficiently  grounded  in  science  to  comprehend  something 
of  the  importance  of  the  subject,  and  having,  moreover, 
the  receptive  intellect  which  readily  admits  half-grasped 
notions. 

"We  shall  have  to  work  hard  for  this,"  Everard  said, 
knowing  that  Lilian  would  willingly  take  her  share  of  the 
toil. 

"It  will  be  well  worth  hard  work,"  she  replied,  joy- 
ously; "but  I  have  other  work  now,  so  I  must  go  in. 
No;  I  have  not  told  mother,"  she  added,  in  reply  to  a 
whispered  question  from  Henry;  "I  would  rather  it  came 
from  you." 

"And  I  have  had  no  opportunity  as  yet,"  he  said.  "So 
I  have  to  skate  with  these  scamps,  have  I?  Very  well; 
but  join  us  as  soon  as  you  can,  Lilian." 

"And  mind  you  bring  some  cake,"  added  Lennie,  who 
was  nothing  if  not  practical;  and  the  children,  hanging 
one  on  each  of  Everard's  hands,  danced  joyfully  off  into 
Northover  Park,  where  they  were  to  skate  on  a  piece  of 
water  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off. 

Just  as  they  entered  the  gate  by  the  lodge,  Lyster 
Garrett  was  leaving  it.  He  looked  at  Henry  with  some 
surprise,  and  received  his  greeting  very  stiffly. 

"Oh,  do  come  and  skate,  Lyster!''  cried  Lennie; 
"then  vou  can  help  me  and  Winnie  can  have  Henry  to 
herself." 

"I  am  going  to  Swaynestone,"  Garrett  said.  "This  is 
a  sad  business  of  Lee's.  Foul  play,  I  fear;"  and  he 
looked  searchingly  at  Everard. 

"Foul  play?"  returned  Everard.  "Nonsense!  Why 
I  suppose  poor  Lee  never  had  an  enemy  in  his  life." 

"He  had  one,"  said  Garrett,  with  marked  emphasis, 
"I  should  strongly  recommend  that  person  to  make  him- 
self scarce." 

"Lee  was  not  a  man  to  make  enemies,  poor  fellow," 
replied  Everard.  "It  will  all  come  out  at  the  inquest, 


I42 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


no  doubt.  Mr.  Maitland  is  gone  to  the  Temple  to  com- 
fort the  poor  widow." 

And  they  passed  on,  Everard  wondering  what  on  earth 
was  the  matter  with  young  Garrett,  who  was  studying 
for  the  bar,  and  was  rather  inclined  to  look  upon  human 
existence  as  raw  material  to  be  worked  up  in  courts  of 
justice. 

"The  Avorld  doesn't  look  much  older  than  it  did  yes- 
terday, Henry,"  observed  Winnie,  thoughtfully;  "yet 
it's  sixty-three,  and  yesterday  it  was  only  sixty-two." 

Henry  did  not  reply,  but  looked  reflectively  at  the 
frozen  landscape  and  clouded  sky,  whence  the  sun  had 
been  shining  half  an  hour  before.  There  was  a  vague 
misgiving  within  him;  Garrett's  hints  flung  a  shroud  of 
dark  conjecture  over  the  Lee  tragedy,  which  he  had  for- 
gotten for  the  moment.  The  world  did  look  older  to 
him,  and  it  seemed  a  whole  year  since  yesterday.  But 
the  pond  was  soon  reached,  and  the  children's  skates 
and  his  own  had  to  be  fitted  on  at  the  expense  of  freez- 
ing fingers  and  stagnant  blood,  which  a  few  turns  in  the 
biting  air  set  right  again.  Then  the  Garrett  ladies  ap- 
peared, and  there  was  quite  a  little  party  on  the  ice,  and 
the  children  having  by  this  time  learnt  to  go  alone, 
Henry  indulged  himself  in  some  artistic  skating,  and  the 
world  grew  young  again,  and  he  did  not  observe  that 
Miss  Garrett  and  her  sister  declined  his  offers  of  assist- 
ance, and  avoided  him  as  much  as  the  small  extent  of 
the  little  lake  would  permit. 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall  marry  Ingram  Swayne- 
stone,  after  all,"  Winnie  observed  to  Lilian,  when  she 
arrived  with  the  promised  cake  in  an  hour's  time.  "I 
think  pw'aps  I  shall  have  Henwy  when  I  gwow  up." 

"There  was  nobody  in  the  world  like  Ingram  yester- 
day," Lilian  laughed;  "so  I  suppose  your  skating  in- 
structions have  been  more  successful  than  his,  Henry.1' 

"This  is  rather  a  dismal  New  Year's  morning,"  Lilian 
said  to  Henry,  who  was  busily  engaged  in  fitting  on  her 
skates.  "Those  poor  Lees  haunt  me,  and  the  servants 
say  there  are  such  dreadful  surmises  about  Ben's  death. 
I  wish  Cyril  were  here.  I  wonder  what  he  is  doing?" 

Cyril  at  that  moment  was  in  the  library  at  Woodlands, 
comfortably  seated  in  a  deep  arm-chair  by  a  blazing  fire. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


14-3 


The  laity  of  the  male  kind  were  shooting;  Marion  and 
her  sister,  Mrs.  Whiteford,  were  busily  employed  with 
the  other  ladies  in  decorations  and  arrangements  for  the 
impending  ball.  Cyril  had  taken  refuge  in  the  library 
with  a  book  that  he  was  utterly  unable  to  read,  and  was 
sorry  to  find  that  George  Everard  had  followed  his  ex- 
ample. 

The  Rev.  George  had  assumed  that  attitude  on  the 
hearth-rug  which  means  conversation,  and  the  disposi- 
tion of  his  coat-tails  were  such  as  forebodes  a  long  dis- 
course, as  Cyril  observed  with  inward  groans.  Cyril's 
face  was  stained  and  haggard;  his  mind  was  in  the  tense, 
overwrought  condition  which  craves  solitude  and  re- 
pose; and  he  racked  his  brain  for  some  pretext  to  escape 
from  his  brother  clergyman,  who  had  the  advantage  of 
being  his  senior  by  many  years,  and  whose  theology 
was  of  a  kind  to  fill  Cyril  with  despair,  since  George  be- 
longed to  the  straightest  sect  of  the  Evangelicals. 

Mr.  Everard  began  by  commenting  upon  his  young 
brother's  worn  apppearance,  and  accusing  him  of  fast- 
ing. 

"I  fasted,"  replied  Cyril,  "because  I  was  too  unwell  to 
eat  And  if  I  received  the  New  Year  with  watching 
and  prayer  you  will  surely  allow  that  I  might  have  done 
worse." 

"Truly.  I  could  wish  many  to  follow  your  example, 
Maitland;  but  not  to  the  injury  of  this  fleshly  tabernacle, 
as  I  fear  you  have  done.  Such  misdirected  zeal  amounts 
to  excess,  and  that  will-worship  against  which  we  are 
cautioned.  You  played  a  very  poor  part  at  breakfast,  I 
observed." 

Cyril  smiled,  for  he  had  observed,  on  his  part,  George 
Everard's  vigorous  onslaught  upon  his  father's  well- 
spread  breakfast-table,  and  he  replied  that  his  lack  of 
appetite  was  due  to  his  own  folly  in  taking  a  long  walk 
fasting  after  a  day  of  headache.  "Indeed,  I  am  thor- 
oughly knocked  up,"  he  added,  Avearily. 

"My  dear  }>-oung  friend,"  continued  George,  solemnly, 
"'I  have  become  deeply  interested  in  you.  I  perceive 
that  you  are  a  very  precious  vessel." 

In  spite  of  the  weariness  and  the  strange  haunted  look 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

that  made  him  appear  to  start  at  every  sound,  as  if  ex- 
pecting evil  tidings,  Cyril's  face  kindled  and  gained  an 
added  charm  at  these  words.  Appreciation  was  the  very 
breath  of  life  to  him,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  hitherto 
thought  too  slightingly  of  George,  who,  perhaps,  after 
all,  could  not  help  being  evangelical,  and  consequently 
rather  slangy  in  his  religious  conversation.  He  made  a 
graceful  allusion  to  their  impending  relationship, 
thanked  George  for  his  good  opinion,  and  expressed  a 
hope  that  they  might  know  more  of  each  other  before 
long. 

"I  have  wrestled  in  prayer  for  you,"  continued  the 
elder  priest  "I  shall  continue  to  wrestle,  that  you  may 
come  to  know  the  truth,  and  that  you  may  have  strength 
to  resist  the  seductions  of  the  Scarlet  \Voman.  I  observe 
great  powers  in  you — singular  powers;  powers  that  may 
effect  much  in  the  vineyard,  if  you  only  devote  them  to 
your  Master's  services;  powers  which,  unsanctified,  will 
lead  you  into  great  temptations." 

"I  am  in  for  it,"  thought  Cyril,  who  disliked  listening 
to  other  people's  sermons  as  much  as  doctors  object  to 
taking  their  own  prescriptions;  "he  is  wound  up  for  at 
least  six  heads."  But  his  face  wore  the  most  winning 
expression  of  interest  and  the  deference  due  to  one  so 
much  older  in  the  ministry  than  himself,  while  he  replied 
modestly  that  he  was  aware  that  some  talents  had  been 
vouchsafed  him,  and  did  not  intend  to  hide  them  in  a 
napkin,  but  that  he  thought  perhaps  his  dear  brother 
rated  him  too  highly  in  the  kindness  of  his  heart. 

At  which  Everard  smiled  paternally,  and  proceeded  to 
speak  of  Cyril's  gifts — his  agreeable  manner  and  power 
of  winning  hearts,  his  eloquence,  his  intellectual  polish, 
and  his  musical  and  flexible  voice,  and  pointed  out  to 
him  the  particular  power  these  would  give  him  in  his 
ministerial  capacity. 

"Not  that  these  mere  carnal  gifts  are  anything  in 
themselves,"  he  continued;  "they  are  but  nets  to  catch 
men.  The  nets  are  not  necessary,  but  it  pleases  the 
Lord  to  work  by  means,  and  those  to  whom  much  is 
given  will  have  much  to  answer  for.  In  short,  you  have 
very  singular  opportunities  of  doing  good  work  in  the 
vineyard.  I  am  thankful  that  you  have  been  moved  to 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  UAITLAND.  145 

enter  the  ministry.  You  might  have  had  a  more  bril- 
liant career  in  a  worldly  calling.  But  what  you  have 
undertaken  is  worth  any  sacrifice.  And  no  man,  having 
once  put  his  hand  to  the  plow,  may  dare  to  look  back." 

George  Everard  was  not  destitute  of  the  human  weak- 
ness that  leads  us  to  believe  in  the  value  of  our  own  good 
advice,  but  he  would  have  been  rather  startled  if  he  could 
have  known  the  powerful  effect  his  words  had  upon  his 
susceptible  and  impulsive  listener's  mind. 

"I  have  put  my  hands  to  the  plow,"  said  Cyril,  taking 
away  the  hands  in  which  he  had  buried  his  haggard  face 
during  his  exordium,  and  speaking  in  those  deep,  strong 
chest-notes  which  so  stirred  the  fibre  of  his  listeners' 
hearts;  "I  will  never  turn  back.  I  call  you  to  witness, 
George  Everard,  in  the  face  of  high  Heaven,  that  I  will 
never  turn  back,  and  that  I  will  make  any  and  every 
sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  this  my  high  calling  and  voca- 
tion." 

Cyril  rose  from  his  seat  as  he  spoke,  and  raised  one 
hand  with  an  impressive  gesture.  All  the  languor  and 
dejection  vanished  from  his  face  and  form;  a  dazzle  of 
pale-blue  fire  came  from  his  eyes;  his  every  feature  kin- 
dled; his  whole  being  exprssed  an  intensity  of  feeling 
that  almost  frightened  Everard,  who  felt  something  like 
a  child  playing  with  matches  and  suddenly  kindling  a 
wood-pile.  He  could  only  ejaculate  faintly,  "My  dear 
young  friend!"  while  Cyril  paced  the  room  with  firm 
strides  and  loftily  erect  head,  a  thing  of  grace  and  spirit- 
like  beauty,  and  at  last  paused  in  front  of  George  with 
such  a  glance  of  fire  as  seemed  to  pierce  through  and 
through  the  soul  of  the  elder  man,  and  offered  him  his 
hand  saying,  "Do  you  bear  me  witness?" 

"I  do  indeed,"  faltered  the  other,  overcome  by  the 
sight  of  an  emotion  beyond  his  conception,  accustomed 
though  he  was  to  a  purely  sentimental  form  of  religion; 
and  he  pressed  Cyril's  fevered  hand  in  his  own  cool  one 
uttering  some  words  of  prayer  and  blessing,  thinking 
that  possibly  one  of  the  sudden  conversions  he  so  con- 
stantly preached  about  and  so  rarely  discovered  any 
traces  of  in  actual  life,  had  taken  place. 

"Your  words,"  said  Cyril,  quietly,  after  a  time,  "were 
like  a  spark  to  a  train  of  gunpowder.  They  came  at  a 


146  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

moment  of  internal  wrestling,  and  helped  me  to  a  deci- 
sion." 

George  Everard  replied  that  he  was  blessed  in  being 
the  unworthy  instrument  of  speaking  a  word  in  season, 
and  proceeded  to  admonish  his  convert  at  length;  while 
Cyril,  with  all  the  fire  quenched  in  his  look  and  bearing, 
sat  drooping  and  haggard  beneath  the  cold,  unimpas- 
sioned  gaze  of  his  counselor,  busied  with  his  own 
thoughts,  and  occasionally  smiling  a  little  inward  smile 
as  the  well-worn  phrases  and  various  allusions  to  the 
Scarlet  Woman  fell  on  his  wearied  ear. 

"In  conclusion,  dear  Cyril,"  George  said  at  length,  "I 
must  bid  you  beware  of  women." 

Cyril  started  and  flushed,  but  Everard  smiled  and  con- 
tinued— 

"Do  not  mistake  me.  You  have  hitherto  had  no 
temptation  from  that  source;  the  monastic  discipline  of 
your  life  at  St  Chad's,  however  mistaken,  has  at  least 
that  advantage.  But,  my  dear  brother,  you  will  find  the 
weaker  vessels  a  stumbling  block  and  a  constant  thorn  in 
the  flesh  of  the  Christian  pastor.  Our  sisters  have  a  fatal 
habit  of  mixing  personal  with  religious  feeling." 

Here  he  sighed  deeply,  and  Cyril  suddenly  remembered 
a  legend  to  the  effect  that  the  Rev.  George,  in  his  curate 
days,  possessed  a  large  cupboard  full  of  unworn  slippers 
worked  by  the  faithful  sisters  of  his  flock.  "Thinking 
that  they  love  the  manna  furnished  them  by  the  faithful 
shepherd,  they  too  often,  and  perhaps  unconsciously, 
cherish  a  tenderness  for  the  shepherd  himself,  and  this 
leads  to  much  that  does  not  conduce  to  edifying.  Such 
feelings  are  indeed  harmless;  but,  though  all  things  are 
lawful  unto  me,  all  things  are  not  expedient,  especially," 
he  added,  with  unguarded  confidence,  "when  one's  wife 
is  inclined  to  be  jeal —  Well,  you  know,  a  young  pastor 
should  be  prepared.  And  let  no  man  be  too  sure  of  him- 
self. Our  poor  sisters  constantly  want  spiritual  advice; 
let  them  seek  it  of  an  aged  pastor.  I  would  counsel  you, 
whose  manners  and  appearance  are  so  strikingly  calcu- 
lated to  impress  weaker  vessels  with  admiration,  to  con- 
fine your  personal  ministrations  to  men  and  elder  sisters. 
You  will  be  run  after  as  a  popular  preacher,  and  women 
will  be  a  snare  to  you,  as  tending  to  bring  discredit  on 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

your  calling,  and  giving  occasion  to  the  enemy  to  blas- 
pheme. The  Christian  pastor  must  not  only  abstain 
from  all  evil,  but  from  all  appearances  of  evil — nay,  the 
remotest  suspicion  of  it.  Our  light  has  to  shine  strongly 
before  men." 

"I  feel  that  most  keenly,"  replied  Cyril,  roused  to  in- 
terest. "I  feel  that  the  lightest  imputation  upon  us  is 
absolutely  fatal  to  our  influence;  thai  we  are  bound  to  a 
far  stricter  life  than  others.  By  the  way,  Everard,  a  very 
difficult  case  of  conscience  was  submitted  to  our  rector 
some  years  ago.  There  was  a  man  doing  good  work  in 
a  parish  consisting  mainly  of  cultured  and  wealthy  peo- 
ple, a  man  who  had  great  personal  influence.  That  man 
in  early  youth  had  done  a  wrong,  which  he  bitterly  re- 
pented, to  atone  for  which  he  would  have  given  years  of 
his  life — perhaps  even  life  itself.  A  girl" — Cyril  paused, 
and  a  thick  sobbing  sigh  caught"  his  breast  and  impeded 
his  utterance — "a  girl  has  been,  alas!  led  astray.  She 
died  by  her  own  hand.  Years  after  when  the  penitent 
was  in  the  height  of  his  usefulness,  a  man  who  had  loved 
this  girl  found  him  out,  and  attempted  to  avenge  the  un- 
happy girl's  death  by  killing  him.  He  attacked  him  in  a 
lonely  spot,  on  a  ledge  of  narrow  cliff."  Cyril  paused 
again,  and  moistened  his  parched  lips,  passing  his  hand- 
kerchief over  his  damp,  chill  forehead  at  the  same  time. 
"'There  was  a  struggle  for  life — no  violence  on  the 
priest's  part;  only  the  instinctive  struggle  for  self-preser- 
vation— and  the  would-be  assassin  was  hurled  over  the 
cliff  to  his  death."  Cyril  paused  once  more,  and  caught 
his  breath  chokingly.  "No  suspicion  was  aroused;  the 
verdict  was  accidental  death.  The  clergyman  gave  no 
evidence.  He  went  on  his  usual  way  and  no  one  ever 
guessed  that  his  hand — the  hand  which  gave  the  sacred 
elements! — had  sent  a  fellow  creature  to  his  grave.  The 
question  which  concerned  our  rector  was,  whether  the 
unintentional  homicide  ought  to  have  volunteered  his 
evidence,  and  confessed  his  involuntary  share  in  the  poor 
creature's  death.  You  see,"  continued  Cyril,  suddenly 
lifting  his  face  to  his  listener,  "he  must  have  brought 
up  the  old  scandal  if  he  had  done  so,  and  that,  coupled 
with  the  mystery  about  the  death,  would  have  utterly 
ruined  his  career  as  a  Christian  pastor." 


148  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  HAITLAND. 

"True,"  replied  George,  thoughtfully  studying  the  in- 
tricacies of  the  Turkey  carpet.  "How  did  your  rector 
obtain  possession  of  these  facts?" 

"The  poor  fellow  confided  in  him — came  to  Kim  for 
advice  in  his  trouble.'' 

"And  what  was  the  advice?" 

"It  was  never  given.  Agitation  of  mind  brought  on 
severe  illness,  which  proved  fatal.  The  rector  found  it 
difficult  to  arrive  at  any  decision.  What  do  you  think?" 

"Truly,  my  dear  young  friend,  the  case  is  perplexing. 
Had  the  question  been  referred  to  me,  I  should  certainly 
have  made  it  a  matter  of  earnest  prayer.  As  a  mere 
abstract  question,  I  feel  inclined  to  favor  the  erring  pas- 
tor's course  of  action.  A  revelation  of  the  truth  would 
doubtless  have  given  great  occasion  to  the  enemy  to 
blaspheme." 

Cyril  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  "Very  true,"  he  replied, 
sinking  back  into  the  depths  of  his  easy-chair,  whence 
he  quickly  started  in  nervous  tremor  as  the  door  sud- 
denly opened,  and  glanced  apprehensively  round,  to  see 
nothing  more  terrible  than  the  bright  face  and  light  fig- 
ure of  Marion. 

"Oh!  here  you  are,  you  bad  boys,  looking  as  grave  as 
two  owls,"  she  said  in  her  light  delicate  treble.  "George, 
your  wife  wants  you  in  the  drawing  room  at  once." 

The  obedient  husband  rose  immediately,  but  paused 
lingeringly  at  the  door.  "We  will  discuss  the  matter 
further,"  he  said.  "Cyril  and  I  have  been  having  the 
most  interesting  conversation,  Marion.  I  have  passed  a 
refreshing  morning  with  him.  We  have  more  in  common 
than  I  supposed." 

And  with  an  indulgent  tap  of  his  young  sister's  cheek, 
George  vanished,  and  left  the  lovers  alone,  Marion 
charmed  to  find  such  harmony  established  between  the 
two  ecclesiastics,  who  bid  fair  at  one  time  to  differ  as 
only  those  of  the  same  creed  under  slightly  varying  as- 
pects can  differ. 

"Isn't  it  provoking,  Cyril?"  she  cried.  "Here  is  a  tele- 
gram from  Leslie,  to  say  he  cannot  spare  time  to  come 
to-night,  and  his  regiment  does  not  embark  till  the  third. 
If  any  one  wants  to  wish  him  good-bye  they  can  run  over 


TBE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  149 

to  Portsmouth  to-morrow.  I  dare  say,  indeed!  The 
other  officers  are  coming;  but  we  shall  be  short  of  men, 
I  fear." 

"Is  that  all?"  returned  Cyril,  with  a  sigh  of  relief;  for 
he  had  turned  pale  and  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  his 
telegram.  "Well,  dearest,  let  us  run  over  with  your  father 
and  Keppel  to-morrow,  and  wish  them  all  good-bye  ac 
once.  I  rather  envy  the  admiral  going  on  the  Mediter- 
ranean station  at  this  murky  season." 

"You  poor  boy!"  exclaimed  Marion,  placing  her  hand 
upon  his  burning  brow;  "you  look  as  if  you  needed  some 
kind  of  a  change.  I  am  afraid  your  head  is  still  ach- 
ing." 

"It  is  maddening,"  returned  Cyril,  detaining  the  car- 
ressing  hand.  "To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  very  unwell.  I 
ought  not  to  have  walked  this  morning." 

"Indeed  you  ought  not.  I  saw  that  you  were  quite 
lame  from  fatigue." 

"And  who  is  to  blame  for  my  walk?"  returned  Cyril, 
with  forced  gayety;  "who  but  Miss  Everard?  I  suppose 
I  caught  cold  in  Long's  gig  yesterday  afternoon.  I  had 
no  overcoat,  meaning  to  walk.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been 
beaten  all  over." 

"Poor  dear!"  said  Marion  tenderly.  "And  you  actu- 
ally have  a  little  bruise  here  over  the  temple,"  she  added, 
touching  the  place  which  was  tender  even  to  Tier  velvet 
touch. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing!"  Cyril  replied  hastily;  but  he  rose 
and  approached  a  small  mirror,  into  which  he  gazed  ap- 
prehensively. "Ah,  yes,  I  dressed  in  a  hurry,  and  hit 
myself  with  a  hair  brush.  And  this,''  he  added,  pointing 
to  a  strip  of  plaster  on  his  chin,  "I  did  in  shaving." 

"What  can  we  do  for  you?"  asked  Marion.  "I  was 
going  to  ask  you  to  carry  some  plants  from  the  conserva- 
tory, but  you  must  not." 

"Come  and  sit  by  me,  dear/*  Cyril  replied,  in  his 
gracefully  autocratic  manner;  "there  is  no  anodyne  like 
your  presence." 

So  the  lovers  remained  hand-in-hand  by  the  library  fire 
a  good  hour,  Marion's  bright  eyes  and  caressing  tones 
worshipping  Cyril,  who  appreciated  nothing  so  much  as 
incense. 


150 


THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  HAITLAND 


George  Everard,  in  the  meantime,  was  telling  his  wife 
what  unexpected  graces  he  had  discovered  in  his  future 
brother-in-law.  "A  very  precious  soul,"  he  said.  "He 
only  needs  Christian  influence.1' 

Mrs.  Everard  knew  well,  that  according  to  the  usage 
of  her  husband's  tribe,  the  word  Christian  was  not  appli- 
cable to  either  of  the  Maitlands. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

When  the  little  skating  party  reached  the  rectory,  Mr. 
Maitland  had  not  returned  from  his  errand  of  charity, 
nor  did  he  appear  when  luncheon  was  served.  The  meal 
was  delayed  half  an  hour,  and  then  took  place  without 
him.  Mrs.  Maitland  was  depressed  at  the  melancholy 
opening  of  the  New  Year,  and  Henry  had  devoted  him- 
self to  the  task  of  cheering  and  amusing  her. 

He  read  to  her  for  a  good  hour  before  luncheon,  while 
Lilian  wrote  notes,  and  the  children,  tired  with  the  morn- 
ing's exercise,  buried  themselves  in  books  of  their  own. 
"The  Prisoner  of  Chillon,"  for  which  Mrs.  Maitland  had 
an  amiable  weakness,  formed  part  of  the  reading,  and 
Henry  was  rewarded  for  his  rendering  of  it  by  the  follow- 
ing observation  from  Lennie,  who  had  not  appeared  to 
be  listening —  "You  should  hear  Cywil  read  that, 
Henry!  You  can't  hold  a  candle  to  him."  Whereupon 
Everard,  in  revenge,  took  him  up  by  the  waistband  with 
one  hand,  and  carried  him  out  into  the  hall,  where  he 
stuck  him  up  in  a  niche  intended  for  a  lamp,  and  whence 
Lennie  had  an  uninterrupted  view  through  the  hall  win- 
dow down  the  village  street. 

"Oh,  I  say,"  he  cried,  "look  at  all  those  policemen!" 
and  Henry,  looking  out,  saw  a  couple  of  blue-coated  con- 
stables standing  chattering  with  the  villagers,  one  group 
just  outside  the  Rectory  gate. 

"Don't  say  anything  about  it  before  your  mother, 
Lennie,"  he  said,  lifting  the  boy  down  from  his  perch. 
"They  are  making  inquiries  about  Ben  Lee,  that's  all." 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  151 

They  were  finishing  their  meal,  when  Mr.  Maitland's 
step  was  heard  in  the  hall,  and  Lilian  went  out  to  meet 
him.  To  all  her  inquiries,  he  said  that  he  wished  to  be 
alone  for  a  little,  and  desired  that  win.e  and  food  might 
be  sent  to  the  study  for  him. 

"He  is  a  good  deal  upset,  no  doubt,"  commented  Mrs. 
Maitland.  "I  sometimes  think,  Lilian,  that  your  father 
is  too  sensitive  for  a  parish  priest." 

"What  would  he  be  as  a  doctor,  Mrs.  Maitland?'' 
Everard  asked,  laughing. 

"Oh,  Henry,  we  all  know  that  only  exceptionally  hard 
hearts  can  endure  that  profession,"  she  replied,  to  the  in- 
dignation of  Winnie,  who  maintained  that  the  medical 
profession  induced  a  particular  tenderness  of  heart,  as  was 
manifested  by  the  specimen  they  had  in  Henry. 

They  were  about  to  leave  the  dining  room,  when  Eliza 
in  a  great  state  of  flutter,  appeared  to  say  that  Mr.  Mait- 
land wished  to  see  Dr.  Everard  in  his  study,  whither 
Everard  repaired  with  a  dim  sense  of  impending  disaster. 
It  was  not  an  auspicious  moment  for  speaking  of  his  en- 
gagement to  Lilian,  and  yet  he  felt  that  the  momentous 
question  was  about  to  be  decided.  Could  it  be  that  Mr. 
Maitland  had  gathered  some  hints  of  his  relations  with 
her,  and  wished  to  put  an  end  to  it  at  once?  Or,  was  he 
merely  giving  him  an  opportunity  of  declaring  his  inten- 
tions? 

As  Everard  crossed  the  hall,  Snip  and  Snap  ran  growl- 
ing before  him,  and  barked  at  an  unseen  figure  standing 
outside  the  door.  Mark  Antony  also  ran  out  with  a  sus- 
picious look  and  angry  eyes;  but  Everard  was  too  full  of 
his  d^wn  reflections  to  observe  the  animals.  He  whistled 
slightly  to  put  himself  at  ease,  and  was  ashamed  to  feel 
his  heart  beating  like  a  girl's  as  he  paused  to  open  the 
study  door.  He  entered,  closing  it  behind  him. 

Mr.  Maitland  was  standing  on  the  hearth-rug  with  his 
back  to  him.  Above  the  mantle-piece  was  a  fine  engrav- 
ing of  Delaroche's  picture  of  the  Agony  of  Gethsemane — 
a  picture  forever  afterward  associated  in  Everard's  mind 
with  that  solemn  moment  in  his  life.  The  kneeling  fig- 
ure, awful  in  suffering,  trembling  before  an  anguish  be- 
yond human  strength  to  endure,  touched  him  with  a  new 
significance;  the  cup  which  human  nature  dared  not 


152 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


grasp,  but  which  divine  love  resolved  to  drain  to  the  lees, 
suddenly,  he  knew  not  how,  symbolized  his  life;  the  ter- 
rible struggle  between  spirit  and  flesh  became  his.  All  in 
one  flash  these  feelings  passed  through  him,  for,  as  soon 
as  the  door  closed  behind  him,  Mr.  Maitland  turned  and 
looked  at  him. 

"What  is  it?"  cried  Henry  in  low  choked  tones. 

Ten  years  had  apparently  been  added  to  the  gentle 
priest's  age,  and  his  haggard  and  careworn  air  empha- 
sized his  likeness  to  Cyril.  But  it  was  the  look  in  his 
eyes  which  sent  all  the  blood  rushing  thickly  to  Everard's 
heart,  such  a  look  of  fiery  anger  and  indignation  as  seemed 
utterly  inconsistent  with  his  kindly  affectionate  nature,  a 
hurt  look,  a  look  of  unendurable  anguish.  Once  before, 
and  only  once,  Henry  had  seen  that  look,  and  now  all  the 
years  rollled  back,  and  he  saw  the  painful  scene  it  recalled 
with  vivid  intensity.  It  was  the  only  time  Mr.  Maitland 
had  ever  thrashed  Cyril,  an  epoch  in  the  children's  lives. 

Some  choice  fruits  had  been  set  aside  for  a  dying  pa- 
rishioner, who  chanced  to  have  been  Ben  Lee's  first  wife, 
and  Cyril,  not  knowing  it  was  intended  for  any  special 
purpose,  and  being  unluckily  alone  in  the  dining  room  with 
it,  had  yielded  to  a  temptation  he  could  never  resist,  and 
had  eaten  first  one- cool  juicy  fruit,  and  then  another,  until 
the  dish  was  empty.  In  a  boy  of  ten  it  was  not  a  grave 
fault,  and,  remorse  having  seized  the  child  just  as  the  last 
peaCh  vanished,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go  and  confess, 
and  receive  some  light  punishment  or  perhaps  only  a  re- 
buke. But  just  then  inquiry  was  made  for  the  missing 
fruit,  its  intended  destination  was  announced  in  his  hear- 
ing, and  both  father  and  mother  were  much  annoyed  at  its 
disappearance. 

All  the  household  was  interrogated,  and  expressed  ig- 
norance of  the  matter;  and  a  servant  having  called  atten- 
tion to  Cyril's  proximity  to  the  temptation,  he  was  spe- 
cially questioned,  but  denied  in  the  calmest  way  having 
ever  seen  such  a  thing  as  a  nectarine.  Later,  when  the 
mysterious  disappearance  was  being  discussed,  Cyril  ex- 
pressed virtuous  indignation  against  the  greedy  thief,  and 
at  the  same  moment  taking  out  his  handkerchief,  he  let 
fall  a  peach  stone,  and,  on  being  searched,  a  whole  hand- 
ful of  fruit  stones  was  discovered  in  his  pocket. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  153 

It  was  then  that  Everard  saw  that  fiery  look  in  Mr. 
Maitland's  kindly  eyes.  He  well  remembered  listening 
with  the  sobbing  Lilian  in  the  hall,  and  hearing  the  rod 
in  its  unsparing  descent  on  the  culprit's  back,  and  the 
pale  anguish  of  Cyril's  face  when  he  left  the  study, 
shamed  and  tearless,  to  throw  himself  into  Lilian's  arms 
and  tell  her  that  he  wished  he  had  never  been  born. 
Later  in  the  evening,  he  found  the  children  crouched  to- 
gether in  each  other's  arms,  crying;  and  then  Cyril  told 
them  how  he  had  lied  from  fear,  not  so  much  of  punish- 
ment as  of  the  public  disgrace  of  having  robbed  the  sick. 
He  never  could  endure  to  be  thought  ill  of,  and  now 
Henry  saw  the  same  look  of  agony  and  anger  in  Mr. 
Maitland's  face,  and  could  only  ask,  "What  is  it?" 

"Henry,"  the  old  man  replied,  in  those  fuller  tones 
which  resembled  Cyril's,  and  which  nothing  but  intense 
feeling  could  produce  in  them,  "I  have  loved  you  as  a  son.'' 

"Sir,"  replied  Henry,  "you  have  always  treated  me  as 
one.  This  house  has  been  my  home." 

"I  have  been  proud  of  you,  Henry ;  I  have  valued  your 
intellect  and  respected  your  moral  worth." 

A  terrible  foreboding  of  what  was  coming  shot  through 
Everard's  brain.  He  sank  into  a  chair  and  turned  white 
to  the  lips.  Mr.  Maitland  remained  standing,  with  the 
same  dreadful  gaze  fixed  upon  Henry,  and  the  sublime 
sorrow  of  Gethsemane  pictured  above  his  head. 

"You  must  know  what  I  have  to  say  to  you,"  he  con- 
tinued. "Do  not,  I  beseech  you;  do  not  pain  me  by 
obliging  me  to  tell  you  in  so  many  words." 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  have  to  say  to  me,"  replied 
Everard,  in  a  faint  voice. 

"You  lie!"  said  Mr.  Maitland. 

"Sir!"  exclaimed  Everard,  starting  to  his  feet. 

"That  you  should  bring  disgrace  upon  the  roof  which 
sheltered  you !"  continued  Mr.  Maitland,  looking  in  his 
passion  more  and  more  like  Cyril. 

"Sir!"  said  Henry,  with  cold,  hurt  pride,  "you  pre- 
sume upon  your- privilege  as  an  older  man  and  a  clergy- 
man. You  have  no  right  to  insult  me  in  this  unwarrant- 
able manner.  I  will  try  not  to  forget  that  you  have  been 
a  father  to  me,  when  my  own  father  was  unable  to  see 


154  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

much  of  me,  and  that  Mrs.  Maitland — I  had  no  mother 

» 

"Thank  God  for  that!"  remarked  Mr.  Maitland. 
"Oh,  Henry,  what  awful  hypocrisy  is  yours!  When  I 
think  of  all  you  said  about  that  unhappy  girl!  When  I 
remember  the  wrong  we  all,  even  his  own  father,  did  to 
Ingram  Swaynestone !" 

"What  can  you  mean?"  ejaculated  Henry,  turning  red, 
and  then  white. 

"Your  own  conscience  must  supply  the  answer,  Henry. 
You  know  how  you  passed  yesterday  afternoon;  you 
know  that  you  returned  with  red  hands  and  a  bruised  face 
to  my  table,  to  my  hearth.  You  may  yet,  if  you  care  to 
escape  by  the  kitchen  door,  elude  the  vigilance  of  the 
police.  But  I  do  not  advise  you  to  do  so.  I  advise  you 
to  surrender  as  quietly  as  possible,  and  I  ask  you  for  the 
sake  of  ancient  kindness  between  us,  to  bring  as  little 
scandal  on  this  roof  as  possible.  I  will  go  to  your  poor 
father  myself,  and  break  the  matter  to  him  as  soon  as  you 
are  gone.  In  the  meantime  the  police — " 

Henry  burst  into  a  laugh — a  loud,  harsh,  dreadful 
laugh,  that  penetrated  into  the  drawing  room,  and 
startled  Lilian  and  her  mother.  "The  police!"  he  cried; 
"'what  have  they  to  do  with  me?" 

"They  bring  a  warrant  to  arrest  you  on  the  charge  of 
wilful  murder." 

"This  is  nonsense!"  cried  Henry.  "Mr.  Maitland,  you 
cannot  take  the  matter  seriously;  you  must  know  that 
there  is  some  absurd  mistake." 

"God  help  us  all!"  he  replied,  bursting  into  tears,  "I 
wish  I  did !  But  the  evidence  against  you  is  too  clear." 

Henry  sat  down  once  more,  and  tried  to  collect  his 
startled  thoughts,  and  resist  the  strange  certainty  which 
possessed  him  that  the  knell  of  his  life  was  already  toll- 
ing. He  lifted  his  eyes  involuntarily,  and  once  more  they 
rested  upon  the  agony  which  was  beyond  even  sinless 
human  strength.  In  his  own  frame  he  felt  the  strong- 
shudder  which  convulses  the  kneeling  figure  before  the 
terrible,  inevitable  cup;  a  deep  and  solemn  calm  came 
upon  him, and  he  began  to  think  more  clearly,  while  the 
fierce  resentment  that  Mr.  Maitland's  unjust  suspicion 
kindled  in  him  died  away  into  pain. 


THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND 


155 


"You  will  break  it  gently  to  my  father?"  he  said, 
quietly,  after  a  pause.  "Tell  him  it  is  a  mistake,  which  a 
few  words  will  probably  set  right." 

"Your  poor  father!  And  Cyril,  my  poor  Cyril;  it  will 
be  a  cruel  blow  to  him!" 

"I  hope  that — Lilian — and  Mrs.  Maitland — I  trust 
they  know  nothing  of  this?  If  they  could,  in  any  way,  be 
prevented  from  knowing  the  object  of  these  men's  pres- 
ence," continued  Henry,  when  he  was  interrupted  by  a 
knock  at  the  door. 

It  was  Eliza  with  the  inspector  and  two  policemen  be- 
hind her. 

"Come  in,"  said  Everard;  and  they  entered  and  formal- 
ly arrested  him. 

"And  the  quieter  you  go  the  better,  sir,"  observed  the 
inspector.  "The  fly  is  waiting  just  outside  the  gate  in 
the  road." 

"Must  I  go  through  the  hall?"  asked  Everard. 

"I  fear  there  is  no  other  course,"  returned  Mr.  Mait- 
land. 

"I  will  just  go  and  account  for  my  sudden  departure 
to  the  ladies,"  said  Everard;  but  the  inspector,  who  had 
taken  certain  steel  implements  from  his  pocket,  while 
one  of  the  men  stood  before  the  door,  here  informed  him 
that  he  could  not  go  without  his  escort  and  those  same 
glittering  ornaments,  which  he  proceeded  to  adjust  to 
Henry's  wrist  with  the  dexterity  of  long  practice. 

Like  one  in  a  dream,  Henry  submitted  to  this  igno- 
miny, and  saw  Mr.  Maitland  step  across  the  hall  aiyd 
carefully  close  the  drawing  room  door,  while  Eliza  fetched 
his  hat  and  coat;  and  thus,  without  any  farewell,  he 
walked  out  of  the  familiar  doors,  observing  as  he  went 
the  three  troubled  pets,  the  dog  giving  vent  to  occa- 
sional reproachful  growls,  and  the  cat  stalking  uneasily 
about,  and  uttering  a  plaintive  mew  as  he  passed  him; 
and  he  felt  the  unaccustomed  touch  of  steel  on  his  wrists, 
and  half  wondered  at  the  strange  proximity  of  the  police- 
men on  either  side  of  him.  As  he  stepped  out  on  the 
graveled  drive,  he  was  startled  to  see  a  little  figure  with 
a  white  face  spring  forward  and  leap  to  his  arms.  It  was 
poor  little  Winnie.  He  bent  down  and  kissed  her. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  darling;  I  shall  soon  be  back. 


I56  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

It  is  only  a  mistake,"  he  said,  touched  by  this  incident, 
and  Mark  Antony's  sympathetic  mew;  "tell  Lilian  it  is  a 
mistake." 

He  could  see  Lilian  through  the  side  of  the  bay-win- 
dow of  the  drawing  room.  Her  face  was  turned  from  him, 
and  she  was  tranquilly  reading  the  morning  paper,  wffich 
did  not  reach  sequestered  Malbourne  till  that  late  hour; 
nevertheless,  he  was  glad  when  he  was  outside  the  gate, 
and  safely  hidden  from  her  sight  in  the  fly. 

The  village  was  full  of  life;  the  whole  population  had 
apparently  turned  out,  open-mouthed  and  interjectional, 
to  see  and  discuss  the  extraordinary  proceeding.  On  a 
little  patch  of  green  Everard  saw  Lennie  with  his  jacket 
off,  engaged  in  fighting  with  Dickie  Stevens,  who  was 
apparently  getting  the  worst  of  it,  and  was,  indeed, 
finally  vanquished  after  a  severe  battle.  The  unlucky 
Dickie  had  alluded  in  plain  and  unvarnished  terms  to  the 
end  which  probably  awaited  Dr.  Everard  in  consequence 
of  his  imputed  crime ;  hence  the  battle. 

The  forage  was  blazing  away,  but  the  clink  of  the  ham- 
mer was  unheard.  Straun  had  left  his  iron  half-shaped 
on  the  anvil,  and  stood  outside,  bare-armed  and  grimy, 
ready  to  pull  off  his  brown  paper  cap  when  the  fly  passed ; 
and  Granfer  leaned  against  the  sill  of  the  open  window, 
with  a  countenance  expressive  of  the  deepest  wisdom, 
and  shook  his  head  ominously.  It  was  not  for  a  man  of 
his  knowledge  and  sagacity  to  betray  surprise;  he  had 
evidently  foreseen  and  predicted  the  event,  and  knew 
more  about  its  probable  termination  than  it  was  prudent 
to  reveal.  The  usual  village  parliament  was  grouped 
around  him,  with  its  hands  chiefly  in  its  pockets,  and  its 
countenance  distraught;  but  no  cap  was  lifted  when  the 
fly  passed  save  Straun's.  That  and  a  courtesy  from  a  lit- 
tle girl,  and  a  slow  and  solemn  salute  from  Tom  Hale, 
who  was  drawn  up  at  the  corner  of  the  wheelwright's 
yard  with  a  stiffness  and  precision  which  suggested  the 
presence  of  the  whole  British  army,  alone  greeted  the 
fallen  man. 

The  news  of  Lee's  death  did  not  reach  Woodlands  till 
the  afternoon,  when  it  was  bruited  about  among  the  ser- 
vants, one  of  whom  had  caught  various  strange  rumors 
in  Oldport.  It  floated  up  to  the  drawing  room,  where  it 


THE  8ILENCE   OF  DEAN  M AIT LAND.  157 

aroused  but  a  tepid  interest,  save  in  Marion.  Cyril 
agreed  with  her  that  it  was  very  sad  and  shocking,  but 
expressed  little  surprise,  or,  indeed,  interest. 

He  was  very  restless,  and,  as  the  afternoon  wore  on, 
left  Marion,  and  wandered  aimlessly  about,  in  spite  of  the 
fatigue  and  illness  of  which  he  complained.  Every 
sound  startled  him,  and  he  kept  looking  expectantly 
toward  the  gates,  till  about  four  o'clock,  when  the  noise 
of  wheels  caught  his  tense  hearing,  and  he  saw  his  father 
drive  up  to  the  door  in  the  little  pony-chaise.  He  made 
one  step  forward  to  meet  him,  and  then  he  went  back, 
and,  passing  behind  some  laurels,  which  effectually 
paced  up  and  down  on  a  terrace,  which  commanded  a 
screened  him,  went  toward  the  back"  of  the  house,  and 
view  of  the  gray  sea,  turning  his  head  constantly  toward 
the  house,  whence  he  expected  a  summons. 

Some  ten  minutes  passed  and  no  one  sought  him.  To 
Cyril  it  was  an  eternity.  His  nervous  agitation  became 
unbearable;  he  was  consumed  with  inward  fever.  Noth- 
ing was  heard  in  the  chill  winter  afternoon,  save  the 
heavy  boom  of  the  groundswell,  which  filled  all  the  air 
with  a  sullen,  steady  roar,  a  roar  which  confused  Cyril's 
senses  with  its  unceasing  thunder,  and  seemed  full  of 
menace  to  him.  The  sea,  which  was  about  half  a  mile 
from  the  grounds,  was  cold  gray,  and  looked,  with  its 
calm  breadth  of  unruffled  surface,  like  a  sheet  of  steel. 
The  sky  also  was  steely  gray,  save  in  the  west,  where  the 
departed  sun  had  left  some  pearl  and  opal  gleams  in  the 
cloud-rifts;  there  was  no  wind,  and  the  frost  still  held. 
Cyril  bared  his  hot  forehead  to  the  still  winter  air,  and 
some  broken  words  of  prayer  escaped  him. 

"I  would  have  atoned,"  he  murmured —  "I  would  have 
atoned  at  any  price,  but  it  was  not  possible;  the  wrong  is 
irreparable.  Take  Thou  the  will  and  the  broken  heart 
of  contrition." 

Then  some  sound  smote  upon  his  hearing  above  the 
august  thunder  of  the  unquiet  sea,  and  he  replaced  his 
hat  and  turned  toward  the  house.  But  no  one  came, 
forth,  and  the  sea  went  on  booming  heavily  as  before, 
only,  to  Cyril's  vexed  spirit,  it  seemed  that  its  hoarse  roar 
rose  to  a  deafening  intensity,  like  the  trouble  in  his 
breast 


I5g  TEE   SILENCE  OF  DB1A7  MAITLAND. 

"If  it  were  but  over!"  he  murmured.  "I  cannot  en- 
dure this  suspense;"  and  he  turned,  half  staggering,  and 
entered  the  conservatory,  where  he  was  still  alone.  He 
felt  very  ill,  and  wondered  if  some  deadly  sickness  were 
about  to  fall  on  him.  Body  and  mind  alike  seemed 
failing  under  the  heavy  burden  he  bore.  He  leant  his 
elbows  on  the  bench  and  supported  his  head  on  his  hands, 
gazing  through  some  bright  flowers  out  on  the  pitiless 
sea,  and  sighed  out  that  he  could  not  bear  it,  that  he 
wished  all  were  over,  and  himself  at  rest  from  the  dread- 
ful stress  of  life. 

A  sharp  priming-knife  lay  near  him;  his  eye  rested 
longingly  upon  it,  and  he  thought  how  easily  it  would 
still  the  terrible  tumult  within.  No  pain;  only  a  pin- 
prick, as  it  were — he  knew  exactly  where  to  strike; 
Everard  showed  him  one  day  when  they  were  discussing 
the  subject — then  a  bright,  warm  jet  of  blood;  a  growing 
languor,  deepening  into  an  eternal  sleep.  He  put  forth 
his  hand  and  touched  the  knife,  even  felt  its  edge,  and 
then  dropped  it  with  a  shudder,  and  betook  himself  to 
prayer.  And  in  his  prayer  he  vowed  a  passionate  vow, 
were  he  once  delivered  from  this  impending  terror,  to 
consecrate  his  life  anew  to  his  great  and  sacred  calling, 
and  to  devote  body,  soul,  and  spirit  with  unsparing  vigor 
to  that  one  supreme  cause.  Calm  fell  upon  him  then, 
and  he  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  approaching  messenger 
with  a  serene  face.  It  was  only  a  servant,  with  a  quiet, 
e very-day  countenance. 

"The  admiral  wishes  to  see  you  in  the  library  at  once, 
sir,"  he  said. 

The  admiral!  Cyril  turned  sick.  Why  not  his  own 
father?  Was  it  so  bad  as  that?  He  walked,  however, 
quietly  through  the  darkening  house,  and  entered  the 
well-known  door  of  the  library  with  a  calm  face.  A  ser- 
vant had  just  placed  a  lamp  on  the  table  before  the  fire, 
the  ruddy  blaze  of  which  danced  over  the  room  with  fan- 
tastic cheerfulness.  George  and  Keppel  were  standing 
on  the  hearth-rug,  asking  each  other  what  had  happened. 
Their  presence  steadied  Cyril,  and  conveyed  a  vague 
comfort  to  him. 

"I  say,  Cyril,"  observed  Keppel,  in  his  strong,  cheery 


THE  xiLENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  159 

voice,  "there's  a  row  of  some  kind;  all  hands  piped. 
What  the  deuce  is  your  governor  up  to?" 

The  door  of  an  inner  room,  the  admiral's  special  sanct- 
uary, opened,  and  he  came  forth,  accompanied  by  Mr. 
Maitland,  who  was  too  troubled  to  exchange  any  greet- 
ing with  the  young  men. 

"Well,  my  lads,"  said  the  admiral,  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  fireplace,  and  plunging  at  once  into  the  sub- 
ject, "here's  the  devil  to  pay.  Maitland  says  that 
Swaynestone's  coachman  was  murdered  last  night — " 

"Murdered!"  cried  Cyril,  springing  from  the  chair  into 
which  he  had  dropped  his  weary,  aching  frame. 

"Murdered!"  echoed  George  and  Keppel,  in  varying 
degrees  of  horror. 

"My  dear  Everard,"  interposed  Mr.  Maitland,  "you 
are  so  precipitate.  Spare  the  young  men;  break  it  gen- 
tly." 

"Gently!  By  George,  Maitland,  murder  is  murder, 
and  a  damned  ugly  thing, however  you  break  it!"  retorted 
the  honest  admiral,  who  had  by  no  means  enjoyed  Mr. 
Maitland's  kind  endeavors  to  break  it  gently.  "The 
women  will  have  to  be  told;  somebody  had  better  break 
it  to  them,"  he  added,  passing  his  hand  thoughtfully 
over  his  fresh-colored,  weather-beaten  face,  while  Cyril 
shuddered  with  a  sick  apprehension.  "It's  no  use  beat- 
ing about  the  bush,  lads,"  he  continued,  in  his  impetuous 
manner;  "the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  Henry  is  ar- 
rested for  murder." 

"Henry!"  cried  the  three.  "By  jove!"  added  Keppel; 
"My  dear  father!"  added  George;  while  Cyril  burst  into  a 
hysteric  laugh.  "Nonsense!  the  thing  is  impossible,  ab- 
surd, ridiculous.  W'hat  ass  arrested  him?"  he  burst  out 

"Stand  by,  Cyril.  You  side  with  your  friend,  of 
course.  Hear  the  rest.  Tell  them,  Maitland,"  expostu- 
lated the  admiral. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  sir,  that  you  think  him  guilty?" 
asked  Keppel,  fiercely. 

"My  dear  Keppel/'  returned  Mr.  Maitland,  "I  would 
give  the  remainder  of  my  life  not  to  believe  it.  I  have 
passed  the  whole  morning  with  Sir  Lionel  and  I  have 
heard  such  evidence  as  places  it  beyond  a  doubt." 

Keppel  swore  steadily  and  intensely  for  some  seconds, 


j6o  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

while  George  quoted  scripture  at  the  same  rate.  M". 
Maitland  thought  that  of  the  two  he  preferred  Keppel's 
observations.  Cyril  dropped  into  an  arm  chair,  and  his 
head  sank  upon  his  breast. 

"Steady,  lad,   steady!"  exclaimed   the   admiral,   ap- 
proaching him.     "We  must  stand  to  our  guns." 

"Brandy,"  murmured  Cyril,  faintly. 

"He  has  been  ill,"  said  Mr.  Maitland,  apologizing  for 
his  son's  weakness;  while  the  admiral  plunged  into  his 
sanctuary,  and  issued  thence  bearing  some  excellent  rum 
in  a  glass,  and  poured  it  into  Cyril's  white  lips. 

"What  the  deuce  did  you  mean  by  swearing  before  the 
clergy,  Keppel?"  he  asked,  while  doing  this  kind  office. 

"I  am  unwell ;  I  have  a  heavy  cold,"  gasped  Cyril,  re- 
viving. "It  is  nonsense  about  Henry.  Where  is  he?" 

"We  must  bail  him  at  once/'  said  Keppel,  when  he 
heard  that  his  brother  was  actually  in  custody  at  that 
moment;  but  Mr.  Maitland  reminded  him  that  this 
course  was  impossible,  while  George  groaned  and  ob- 
served parenthetically  that  Henry  needed  a  fall  to  bring 
him  to  a  serious  state  of  mind. 

"Serious!"  echoed  the  admiral.  "You  may  depend 
upon  it,  the  poor  beggar  feels  serious  enough.  Well,  he 
was  the  only  boy  I  never  flogged  of  you  all.  He  was  such 
a  little  chap  when  his  poor  mother —  Damnation 
George!  if  you  spare  the  rod  you  spoil  the  child!"  cried 
the  poor  man,  turning  aside  to  dash  a  couple  of  tears 
from  his  eyes.  "The  Bible  tells  you  that." 

"True,  most  true,"  returned  George,  conscious  of  hav- 
ing received  a  Benjamin's  portion  of  the  paternal  rod. 

"The  question  is,  what  is  to  be  done?"  said  the  prac- 
tical Keppel,  who  was  pacing  the  library  with  a  wide 
balance  of  limb,  as  if  the  carpet  were  liable  to  rise  in 
waves  and  upset  him. 

"Exactly,"  returned  the  admiral,  with  an  air  of  relief. 
"How  can  we  get  him  out  of  this  hole,  Maitland?  We 
must  spend  all  we've  got  to  get  him  off  and  save  the 
family  honor.  What's  the  first  step?  To  London  for  a 
lawyer?  And  I  sail  on  the  third,  and  so  does  Keppel; 
and  then  Leslie  is  off  to  India.  By  jove!  it's  the  devil's 
own  luck;  nobody  but  a  parson  left  to  look  after  the 
family,  and  I  put  George  into  the  Church — meaning  no 


TBE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  X6l 

disrespect,  gentlemen — because  he  was  the  fool  of  the 
family." 

"It  is  too  ridiculous  to  take  this  seriously,"  said  Cyril. 
"The  inquest  will,  of  course,  set  Henry  free.  He  will 
prove  an  alibi,  or  these  thick-headed  rustics  will  have 
sufficient  sense  to  bring  in  a  verdict  of  accidental  death. 
What  more  probable  than  that  Lee — in  trouble,  and 
probably  a  little  tipsy — should  slip  in  a  wood  on  a  dark 
night  and  fall  heavily?" 

"But,"  replied  Mr.  Maitland,  who  did  not  remember 
that  Cyril  could  have  heard  nothing  about  a  wood,  "a 
man  cannot  drag  himself  for  yards  into  the  underwood 
after  receiving  a  mortal  blow  on  the  head." 

"Who  says  he  was  dragged?"  asked  Cyril,  quickly. 

"There  are  the  marks  on  the  frosted  moss  and  grass.  I 
saw  them  myself,"  said  his  father;  and  he  went  on  to 
place  further  evidence  before  them,  while  Cyril  listened 
with  a  beating  heart  and  gathering  dread. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  cried  at  last,  "don't  you  all  see 
that  it  is  morally  impossible  for  a  man  of  Henry's  char- 
acter to  commit  such  a  crime?  Even  if  Lee  were  killed, 
Henry  had  no  hand  in  it." 

"Henry  is  as  honest  a  fellow  as  ever  stepped,  Cyril," 
said  Keppel;  "but,  you  see,  women  are  the  very  deuce. 
The  best  of  men  may  be  led  on  to  anything,  once  he  gets 
hung  up  in  an  affair  of  that  kind." 

"An  excuse  as  old  as  Adam's  iniquity,"  sighed  Mr. 
Maitland. 

"Henry  had  nothing  to  do  with  that  miserable  busi- 
ness," cried  Cyril ;  "  I  would  stake  my  life  on  it." 

"Stand  up  for  your  friend,  my  lad,"  said  the  admiral. 
"He  would  be  a  doctor;  and  I  won't  deny  that  a  surgeon 
is  useful  after  a  general  engagement;  but  then,  he  would 
not  even  enter  the  service.  Doctoring  is  bad  for  the 
morals;  all  this  poking  and  prying  into  dead  bodies  is  an 
infernal  business  not  fit  for  a  gentleman.  Those  very 
clever  doctors  are  a  bad  lot,  most  of  them  in  league  with 
the  devil.  George  said  in  his  last  sermon  that  the  Al- 
mighty sends  sickness  as  a  punishment  for  sin,  and  it  is 
a  clear  flying  in  the  face  of  Providence  to  make  people 
healthy." 

"My  dear  father  1"  remonstrated  George,  who  was  not 


i62          QBE  SILEXCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

prepared  for  such  an  application  of  his  sermon,  flattering 
though  it  were. 

"Yes,  yes,  you  said  so  in  the  pulpit,  and  you  are  not  in 
the  pulpit  now,"  proceeded  the  admiral,  with  a  fine  dis- 
tinction between  the  preacher  and  the  man.  "Now  for 
action,  lads.  When  does  this  damned  thing  take  place, 
Maitland?" 

"The  inquest  will  be  held  to-morrow,  admiral;  but  the 
verdict  may  not  be  given  for  some  days.  In  the  mean- 
time,  we  must  try  to  get  all  the  evidence  in  Henry's  favor 
that  we  can.  Lilian  saw  him  return,  but  refuses  to  swear 
to  it.  She  actually  disbelieves  the  evidence  of  her 
senses." 

"Poor  Lilian,"  murmured  Cyril,  with  a  kind  of  sob. 

"Oh,  the  women!"  groaned  the  admiral.  "George, 
go  and  break  it ;  it  is  parson's  work.  Poor  little  Marion ! 
you  had  better  tackle  her,  CyriL" 

"A  solicitor  must  be  procured  to  watch  the  case  on 
Henry's  behalf  at  the  inquest,"  said  Mr.  Maitland.  "I 
suppose  Weston  would  be  the  man;  he  is  your  man  of 
business,  I  think." 

"Just  so,"  replied  the  admiral,  instantly  ringing  the 
bell  to  order  a  carriage.  "I'll  go  at  once.  By  George! 
I  had  forgotten  the  dance.  Half  the  country  will  be  here 
in  a  couple  of  hours." 

The  consultation  was  at  an  end,  and  the  meeting  broke 
up,  and  Cyril,  with  a  strange  feeling  of  relief,  went  to 
Marion  and  told  her  what  had  occurred,  while  George  did 
the  same  with  the  other  ladies,  who  somehow  had  the 
tidings  conveyed  to  the  people  staying  in  the  house. 

Breaking  the  news  to  Marion  was  not  all  pain ;  in  fact, 
it  brought  a  wonderful  solace  to  Cyril's  troubled  soul. 
He  spent  the  evening  alone  with  her,  and  so  exerted  him- 
self to  convince  her  of  her  brother's  perfect  innocence 
and  probable  speedy  release,  that  he  went  to  bed  with  a 
lightened  heart,  and  slept  as  no  one  else  slept  that  night 
beneath  the  admiral's  roof,  the  sleep  of  exhaustion, 
dreamless  and  perfect  as  that  of  an  infant. 


TUE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  UAITLAND.  163 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

In  those  days  of  unutterable  amazement,  Everard  be- 
gan to  doubt  his  own  identity.  On  the  first  day  of  the 
inquest  he  received  an  affectionate  letter  from  Cyril, 
treating  the  affair  of  his  imprisonment  as  a  mistake, 
which  a  brief  investigation  would  speedily  clear  up. 

Then  came  the  succession  of  surprises  which  the  in- 
quest brought,  as  witness  after  witness  came  forward  and 
swore  to  actions  of  his  which  he  had  never  so  much  as 
contemplated  in  imagination. 

After  the  evidence  of  those  who  discovered  poor  Lee, 
and  that  of  the  surgeon,  Mrs.  Lee  was  the  first  witness. 
She  last  saw  her  husband  alive  at  dinner  time,  after 
which  he  left  her  to  return  to  the  stables,  she  said.  She 
left  the  Temple  for  Malbourne  soon  after  three,  and  on 
returning  through  the  fields  at  about  a  quarter  to  five, 
she  saw  Dr.  Everard  spring  over  a  hurdle  leading  into  the 
fatal  copse,  and  walked  hurriedly  along  toward  Mai- 
bourne.  Although  the  moon  was  but  just  risen,  she  made 
him  out  distinctly  by  his  gray  suit.  He  had  no  stick  in 
his  hand,  and,  though  he  passed  within  half  a  dozen 
yards,  did  not  appear  to  see  her,  and  took  no  notice  of  Ber 
salutation.  Her  husband  was  a  steady  and  sober  man, 
but  had  of  late  been  much  depressed  on  account  of  family 
troubles,  had  been  especially  vexed  at  dinner  time,  and 
had  eaten  little.  When  asked  what  had  distressed  Lee, 
she  replied  that  he  had  some  difference  with  his  daughter, 
whom  he  had  discovered  with  Dr.  Everard  at  mid- day. 

Sir  Lionel  Swaynestone  stated  that  he  had  last  seen  Lee 
at  eleven  in  the  forenoon;  had  known  him  all  his  life  as 
a  sober  and  industrious  man  and  good  servant. 

Judkins  described  the  hour  and  manner  of  his  finding 
Lee's  body.  He  had  last  seen  him  alive  at  three  o'clock; 
when  Lee  told  him  that  Dr.  Everard  would  be  somewhere 
near  the  Temple  that  afternoon,  and  that  he  intended,  if 
possible,  to  meet  him,  and  threaten  him  with  exposure 
unless  he  consented  to  repair  the  wrong  he  had  done  his 
child. 


T64  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

Everard's  solicitor  here  interposed  to  ask  the  nature  of 
the  wrong  and  Lee's  grounds  for  suspecting  Everard  of 
it,  when,  to  his  own  deep  amazement,  as  well  as  Eve- 
rard's, he  was  told  that  Everard  and  Alma  had  been  seen 
together  in  the  copse  by  both  Lee  and  Judkins  on  the 
very  morning  of  Lee's  death;  and,  further,  that  he,  Jud- 
kins, had  witnessed  several  clandestine  meetings  between 
them  during  Mrs.  Lee's  illness  in  the  spring.  In  the  sub- 
sequent trial  before  the  magistrates,  Judkins  further 
witnessed  to  meetings  at  specified  times,  and  to  gifts  of 
flowers,  exchanged  between  Everard  and  Alma.  A 
book  of  poems,  found  in  Everard's  room  at  the  Rectory, 
was  produced,  inscribed,  "For  Alma  Lee,  with  best  New 
Year's  wishes,  from  H.  E."  Judkins  also  swore  that  let- 
ters had  passed  between  them. 

The  solicitor  having  asked  Judkins  if  Lee  had  not 
threatened  violence  toward  Everard,  he  replied  that  he 
only  threatened  to  assault  the  prisoner  in  case  he  refused 
to  do  justice  to  his  daughter. 

Judkins  further  deposed  that,  on  returning  from  the 
downs  with  some  horses  he  had  been  exercising  at  a  little 
after  four  on  the  fatal  afternoon,  he  had  seen  the  prisoner 
enter  the  copse.  On  being  subsequently  askd  by  Eve- 
rard how  he  had  missed  Mr,  Swaynestone,  who  was  riding 
toward  the  downs  at  the  same  time,  he  replied  that  he  had 
drawn  up  for  some  minutes  behind  a  screen  of  hazels 
while  Mr.  Swaynestone  was  passing  in  the  open.  He 
did  not  until  the  Assize  trial  add  that  he  did  this  to  watch 
the  meeting  of  the  gray  figure  with  Alma. 

John  Nobbs,  a  stable-help,  deposed  to  parting  with 
Lee  on  the  high-road  outside  the  gate  at  three  o'clock; 
the  witness  was  starting  for  Oldport  on  foot,  Lee  walked 
up  the  meadow  toward  his  home.  Lee  carried  no  stick, 
and  was  quite  sober. 

Several  Swaynestone  servants  witnessed  having  seen 
Lee  about  the  place  before  three  o'clock;  after  which 
hour  no  one  appeared  to  have  seen  him  alive. 

Ingram  Swaynestone  bore  witness  to  Lee's  character; 
he  saw  him  last  alive  at  the  stables  at  two  o'clock.  At 
twenty  minutes  past  four,  or  thereabouts,  Ingram  rode 
across  the  meadow  in  which  the  Temple  stood,  at  a  can- 
ter, on  his  way  across  the  downs  to  Shotover,  when  he 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  165 

saw  Everard  walking  quickly  along  a  hedgerow  in  the 
direction  of  Temple  Copse.  He  was  dressed  in  gray, 
carried  a  stick,  and  made  no  reply  to  Swaynestone's 
shouted  greeting,  beyond  a  wave  of  his  hand.  On  return- 
ing through  Malbourne,  at  ten  minutes  to  five,  Swayne- 
stone  again  saw  Everard  walking  in  the  moonlight  across 
the  field,  at  the  corner  of  which  the  Malbourne  sign-post 
stood.  He  reigned  in  his  horse,  and  called  out  to  him; 
but  Everard  went  hurriedly  on,  not  appearing  to  see  or 
hear  him.  The  road  was  some  fifty  yards  from  the  path 
Everard  was  pursuing,  and  the  field  was  higher  than  the 
road. 

William  Grove  had  seen  Everard  at  the  same  place  and 
time.  He  expressed  wonder  to  Jim,  his  mate,  that  Dr. 
Everard,  at  the  sound  of  the  wagon-bells — since  he  was 
then  returning  from  Oldport  with  his  team — and  his  own 
"Good-night,  doctor,"  did  not  come  to  receive  a  parcel 
the  wagoner  was  bringing  him  from  Oldport,  and  respect- 
ing the  instant  delivery  of  which  he  had  been  most 
solicitous.  All  this  Jim  Downer  corroborated. 

Stevens,  the  sexton,  said  that  about  sunset,  or  later,  he 
was  in  the  churchyard,  and  saw  a  figure  in  a  gray  suit, 
which  he  recognized  as  Dr.  Everard's,  leave  the  back 
premises  of  the  Rectory,  and  ascend  the  hill  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Swaynestone.  He  carried  a  stick. 

Straun,  the  blacksmith,  on  the  other  hand,  swore  that 
he  saw  Everard  pass  through  the  village  street  by  the 
forge  at  that  hour,  or  a  little  before.  He  was  uncertain 
about  his  clothes,  but  swore  to  the  stick. 

A  Swaynestone  keeper  saw  Everard  a  little  later  in  a 
plantation  on  the  upland.  He  described  his  gray  suit  and 
stick;  he  was  not  near  enough  to  speak  to  him.  A  shep- 
herd, cutting  turnips  in  a  field  near,  swore  that  Everard 
passed  him  at  four  o'clock,  and  stopped  a  moment  to  chat 
with  him.  He  was  not  sure  about  his  clothes;  thought 
they  were  gray.  Everard  had  a  stick,  also  some  very 
good  tobacco,  of  which  he  gave  him  some.  He  told  the 
shepherd  that  he  was  going  across  the  downs  to  Widow 
Dove's.  Dr.  Everard  wondered  that  two  lone  women 
should  live  up  there  in  the  solitary  cottage,  he  said. 

Eliza,  the  parlor  maid,  bore  witness  that  Everard  was  at 
the  Rectory  between  three  and  four;  he  was  in  the  draw- 


1 66  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

ing  room  with  her  mistress  when  she  showed  some  visit- 
ors in.  She  saw  him  no  more  till  about  five,  when  he  en- 
tered softly  and  hurriedly  by  the  back  door,  and  ran  across 
the  back  hall  in  the  dusk.  Miss  Maitland  was  leaving 
the  kitchen  at  the  time,  and  also  saw  Dr.  Everard,  whose 
figure  was  closely  shown  by  the  light  issuing  from  the 
kitchen.  Miss  Maitland  called  to  him,  "Henry,  was  Mrs. 
Dove  at  home?"  but  he  made  no  answer,  ran  upstairs,  and 
locked  himself  in.  The  cook  also  saw  Dr.  Everard  at  that 
hour,  and  heard  Miss  Maitland  speak  to  him.  Miss 
Maitland  was  rebuking  the  witness  for  not  having  lighted 
the  hall  lamp.  Eliza  next  saw  Everard  an  hour  later.  He 
came  into  the  kitchen  with  his  hand  to  his  face,  and  asked 
the  cook  for  some  raw  meat  to  save  him  from  a  black  eye. 
Martha,  the  housemaid,  said,  "Oh,  sir,  what  an  eye  you 
will  have!"  He  replied,  "I  hope  not;  there  is  nothing 
like  raw  meat."  Cook  laughed,  and  said,  "One  would 
think  you  had  been  in  the  wars,  sir.  Have  you  had  a 
fall?"  He  seemed  confused,  and  said,  "I  don't  know.  At 
least,  I  ran  up  against  a  tree  in  the  dark."  At  dinner  he 
told  Mr.  Maitland  that  he  knocked  his  face  against  a 
door,  and  made  signs  to  Miss  Winnie  not  to  tell.  When 
he  came  into  the  kitchen,  Eliza  heard  him  say  something 
to  Miss  Winnie  about  not  telling.  He  seemed  excited 
and  confused  at  dinner.  This  evidence  of  Eliza's,  given 
briefly  at  the  inquest,  only  came  out  in  full  at  the  trial  in 
Oldport  Town  Hall,  when  it  was  corroborated  by  the 
other  maids. 

Granfer  was  produced  on  the  second  day  of  the  inquiry, 
and,  with  an  irrepressible  circumlocution  which  nearly 
drove  the  jury  beside  themselves,  witnessed  meeting 
Henry  at  the  wheelwright's  corner  at  five  o'clock ;  he  was 
inclined  to  believe  that  he  wore  the  fatal  gray  suit,  since 
he  and  Straun  and  several  others  had  seen  and  com- 
mented on  it  in  the  forenoon. 

What  bewildered  Everard  most  was  the  evidence  of 
things  against  him.  The  housemaid  witnessed  with  tears, 
to  finding  bloody  water  in  his  hand-basin,  and  seeing  the 
garments  hanging  to  dry.  The  suit  was  produced,  and 
bore  other  stains,  which  Henry  had  not  observed  by  can- 
dle light.  He  saw  stains  of  earth,  as  well  as  those  darker 
marks;  bits  of  moss  and  dead  leaves  caught  in  the  rough 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  167 

woollen  material;  the  badly  sponged  spot  he  had  seen  at 
mid-day;  and,  more  surprising  still,  a  slight  rent  at  the 
arm-hole,  as  if  the  sleeve  had  been  torn  in  a  struggle. 

Buried  among  dead  leaves  and  moss,  the  police  found  a 
handkerchief  of  Everard's,  bearing  the  ominous  crimson 
stains.  Further  off,  among  thick  holly  bushes,  they 
found  a  stick,  which  the  doctor  said  might  have  dealt  the 
fatal  blow.  Mr.  Maitland  identified  the  stick — a  thick 
bamboo,  with  a  loaded  top — as  his  property.  It  remained 
usually  in  the  hall,  and  was  used  by  the  family  generally. 
Everard  had  taken  it  in  the  afternoon  on  his  walk  with 
the  twins,  as  many  people  could  witness.  In  Lee's  pocket 
they  found  the  two  halves  of  the  letter  Alma  had  dropped 
in  the  forenoon.  It  was  written  on  good  note-paper,  from 
the  top  of  which  an  embossed  heading  had  been  hastily 
torn,  so  hastily  that  some  of  the  end  letters  remained 
thus:  "ory,"  "rne."  Similar  paper  was  taken  from  a  blot- 
ting-case  used  chiefly  by  visitors  with  the  full  address, 
"The  Rectory,  Malbourne."  The  hand-writing,  evidently 
feigned,  was  afterward  submitted  to  an  expert,  and  com- 
pared with  various  specimens  of  Everard's  writing. 

Lee's  watch,  purse,  etc.,  were  found  upon  him;  and, 
what  puzzled  Everard  strangely,  a  leather  bag  containing 
fifty  pounds  in  gold,  which  had  been  stamped  upon  by  a 
heavy  foot,  was  found  on  the  hard  path  some  yards  from 
the  body.  It  was  impossible  to  identify  this,  as  it  had  no 
marks,  and  was  one  of  those  commonly  used  by  bankers 
to  serve  their  customers  with  gold ;  it  was  evidently,  from 
its  dull  gray  color,  an  old  one,  which  had  passed  through 
many  hands.  At  the  subsequent  trial  it  was  suggested 
that  this  money,  so  carefully  arranged  to  defy  identifi- 
cation, had  been  offered  to  Lee  as  the  price  of  his  silence, 
and  by  him  indignanatly  rejected,  and  had  been  forgotten 
by  the  criminal  in  his  agitation  after  the  deed. 

Everard's  own  statement  was  simple  enough.  He  could 
merely  say  that,  wearing  the  clothes  in  which  he  then 
stood,  a  prisoner,  he  had  left  the  Rectory  about  sundown 
— the  exact  hour  he  had  not  observed — and,  passing 
through  the  village,  where  he  exchanged  a  brief  saluta- 
tion with  Straun,  who  was  standing  alone  outside  the 
forge,  which  was  closed  for  the  night,  had  walked 
through  the  fields  as  far  as  the  fatal  copse.  There  he 


!68  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

had  turned  off  and  struck  across  the  down  to  the  solitary 
cottage  known  far  and  near  as  Widow  Dove's.  He  re- 
membered meeting  no  one  save  the  shepherd,  but  had 
seen  a  man  exercising  two  horses  in  the  distance  when  on 
the  open  down.  He  was  not  near  enough  to  recognize 
the  rider,  but  concluded  that  he  was  a  groom  from 
Swaynestone  or  Northover. 

He  found  the  widow's  hut  empty,  with  no  smoke  issuing 
from  the  chimney,  and  no  light  in  either  window,  and  re- 
turned by  a  different  path,  which  he  described,  meeting  no 
human  being  till  he  descended  into  the  highroad  at  Mai- 
bourne  Cross,  and  spoke  to  Granfer  (whose  legal  designa- 
tion was  Isaac  Hale,  by  the  way);  he  did  not  remember 
what  he  said  at  this  interview,  save  that  he  asked  if  Long's 
bell-team  had  passed.  Going  on  in  the  dark  to  Long's 
farm,  which  was  approached  by  a  by-road  at  right  angles 
to  the  highway,  he  found  a  little  girl  sitting  on  the  door- 
step of  Grove's  cottage,  which  was  just  outside  the  farm 
gate,  and  learned  from  her  that  Grove  was  gone  to  the 
Rectory  with  a  parcel. 

His  return  at  six,  his  romp  with  Winnie,  and  its  con- 
sequences, he  described;  and,  although  cautioned  that 
what  he  said  would  be  put  in  evidence  against  him,  de- 
posed to  finding  blood  on  his  clothes,  and  sponging  it 
away,  but  expressed  himself  unable  to  account  for  its 
presence.  He  had  never  quarreled  with  Lee,  whom  he 
had  known  and  respected  all  his  life.  He  had  last  seen 
him  alive  on  Sunday  in  church,  and  had  last  spoken  to 
him  on  the  previous  Saturday.  He  was  too  indignant  at 
the  imputation  respecting  Alma  to  deny  it,  but  he  denied 
having  met  her  on  the  3ist,  admitting  that  he  was  in  the 
copse  at  the  alleged  hour,  but  saying  nothing  about 
Lilian  being  with  him,  since  he  could  not  endure  the  idea 
of  dragging  her  name  into  such  associations.  He  heard  of 
Lee's  death  first  on  the  morning  of  New  Year's  day. 

He  almost  smiled  when,  at  the  close  of  the  wearisome 
inquiry,  the  jury  returned  a  verdict  of  wilful  murder 
against  him. 

Admiral  Eyerard  and  Keppel  received  the  intelligence 
by  telegram  just  as  the  squadron  was  leaving  Spithead. 
Leslie  was  already  on  his  way  to  India,  and  so  heard 
nothing. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  169 

The  trial  before  the  magistrates  seemed  to  Everard  but 
a  weary  repetition  of  the  inquest  nightmare. 

The  same  witnesses  appeared  with  the  same  evidence  in 
fuller  detail.  The  surgeon,  a  Dr.  Eastbrook,  who  had 
attended  the  Swaynestone  people  ever  since  he  began  to 
practice,  confirmed  the  evidence  touching  Lee's  good 
health  and  regular  and  abstemious  habits,  and  was  borne 
out  by  a  second  surgeon,  who  had  assisted  him  in  a  post- 
mortem examination.  Both  surgeons  witnessed  to  contu- 
sions and  other  signs  of  struggle;  they  were  unanimous  in 
ascribing  the  death  to  a  blow  not  self-inflicted,  and  both 
were  of  opinion  that  Lee's  assailant  must  have  been  a 
man  of  considerable  muscular  power,  Lee  himself  being  a 
powerful  man  scarcely  past  the  prime  of  life.  In  cross- 
examination,  they  admitted  that  a  knowledge  of  anatomy 
would  indicate  the  part  behind  the  ear  as  one  for  a  fatal 
blow.  Poor  Mr.  Maitland  gave  evidence  to  Henry's  spot- 
less character,  and  was  much  dismayed  at  finding  himself 
led  into  giving  damaging  statements  of  Everard's  ex- 
treme eagerness  to  attend  Mrs.  Lee  in  the  previous  spring, 
and  his  frequent  visits  to  the  Temple.  He  was  equally 
dismayed  at  the  damaging  effect  of  his  evidence  touching 
Everard's  demeanor  at  dinner  with  regard  to  the  black 
eye.  Granfer  also  contrived  to  effect  a  little  more  mis- 
chief in  the  town  hall. 

Granfer  was  disgusted  to  observe  that  Sir  Lionel,  who 
was  a  witness,  was  not  on  the  bench,  and  that  a  mere  lad 
of  some  forty  summers,  a  pompous  man  of  commercial 
extraction,  for  whom  the  old  aristocrat  had  the  heartiest 
contempt,  played  the  leading  part  on  that  august  emi- 
nence. He  therefore  put  on  his  most  stolid  look,  and 
acted  as  if  extremely  hard  of  hearing  as  well  as  compre- 
hension, and  contrived  to  impress  Mr.  Browne-Stockham 
with  the  idea  that  he  was  past  giving  evidence.  The 
magistrate,  moreover,  was  fully  impressed  with  a  convic- 
tion of  Everard's  guilt,  which  impression  he  had  derived 
from  Sir  Lionel,  who  was  furious  with  indignation  at  the 
guilt  and  hypocrisy  which  had  brought  about  the  tragedy, 
and  had  made  him  accuse  and  suspect  his  own  son  amid 
all  kinds  of  domestic  discord,  and  was  disposed  to  believe 
anything  of  the  man  who  sat  at  his  board  one  day  and 
killed  his  beloved  and  trusted  servant  the  next.  Mr. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

Browne-Stockham,  therefore,  after  many  vain  attempts, 
succeeded  in  getting  Granfer,  whose  mental  impenetrabil- 
ity caused  innumerable  titters  in  the  court,  to  reply  to 
his  question  if  he  understood  the  nature  of  an  oath. 

"A  oath,"  returned  Granfer  at  last,  with  an  air  of 
matchless  vacuity,  "a  oath,"  he  repeated  in  his  slow 
way,  as  he  scratched  his  head  and  slowly  looked  round 
the  court — "ay,  I  hreckon  I  understand  the  nature  of 
they.  I've  a-yeerd  more  oaths  in  a  hour  than  you  could 
swear  in  a  day.  Ay"  he  continued,  after  a  pause,  during 
which  an  explosion  of  laughter  from  the  court  was 
angrily  subdued,  and  looking  more  helplessly  vacant 
than  ever,  "my  master  was  the  sweariest  man  you  ever 
see.  I've  a-yeerd  more  oaths  than  you've  got  zuvverins 
avore  you  was  barned — or  thought  on,  for  that  matter," 
he  added,  with  a  sudden  gleam  of  inane  self-complacency 
in  the  eyes  directed  upon  the  indignant  magistrate,  who 
muttered  that  the  old  fool  wras  in  his  dotage,  while  the 
court  again  exploded  with  laughter,  as  courts  so  easily 
do. 

"Do  you  know,"  Mr.  Browne-Stockham  asked,  in  his 
most  pompous  manner,  when  order  was  once  more 
restored,  "in  whose  presence  you  stand?" 

Granfer  once  more  looked  around  in  his  slow  way,  with 
an  expression  half-way  between  an  owl  and  an  idiot,  and 
replied,  without  the  faintest  quiver  of  a  facial  muscle,  "I 
ain't  a  zeen  none  of  'em  avore,  as  I  knows  on;  athout," 
he  added,  brightening  up  suddenly,  "athout  it's  Sir  Lio- 
nel. I  knows  he  well  enough.  Knowed  his  vather  avore 
'un.  Vine  vigure  of  a  man  he  was." 

Here  Granger's  evidence  was  lost  in  such  a  roar  that 
the  magistrate  was  driven  to  the  verge  of  frenzy,  and 
threatened  to  clear  the  court.  Finally,  Isaac  Hale,  aged 
ninety-six,  was  duly  sworn,  and  was  rather  severely 
handled  while  giving  his  evidence  as  to  his  meeting  Ever- 
ard  at  five  o'clock,  the  very  hour  at  which  the  maids 
swore  to  his  return  by  the  back  way  to  the  rectory. 

Everard  had  given  him  a  shilling  to  drink  his  health 
with,  he  said,  and  had  further  bestowed  some  tobacco 
upon  him.  For  the  consideration  of  a  shilling,  it  was 
suggested,  an  aged  rustic  might  well  make  a  mistake  a:. 
to  the  exact  hour  of  meeting  a  friend  on  the  highway. 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEA.V  MAITLAXD.  171 

Mr.  Browne-Stockham,  moreover,  was  convinced,  from 
Granfer's  Brutus-like  affectation  of  imbecility  later  on, 
that  the  old  man  was  in  collusion  with  the  accused. 

Mrs.  Lee  and  Judkins  both  bore  witness  to  the  excl-ange 
of  high  words  between  Everard  and  Lee  at  their  chance 
meeting  on  the  Saturday,  Lee  having  gone  home  in  great 
excitement,  and  told  them  that  he  had  forbidden  Ever- 
ard his  house.  Cyril  was  summoned  to  confirm  these 
statements.  There  was  no  quarrel,  Cyril  said  on  his  oath, 
but  Lee  seemed  annoyed,  neither  of  them  knew  why,  and 
forbade  Everard  his  house;  they  supposed  him  to  be 
under  the  influence  of  drink. 

Here  the  counsel  for  the  prosecution  took  Cyril  up 
sharply,  and  asked  what  grounds  he  had  for  such  a  sup- 
position with  regard  to  a  man  whose  sobriety  was  well 
known;  and,  altogether,  Cyril's  evidence  was  severely 
tested  and  reduced  to  powder.  He  sat  down  with  the 
despairing  conviction  that  he  had  done  Everard  as  much 
damage  as  possible. 

Lilian's  evidence,  however,  had  a  worse  effect  even  than 
his.  She  had  tried  to  avoid  admitting  her  glimpse  of  the 
gray  figure  at  dusk,  but  in  vain.  The  maid  swore  that 
she  had  both  seen  and  spoken  to  the  supposed  Everard, 
and  she  was  placed  in  the  cruel  position  of  having  to 
swear  for  or  against  an  apparition,  which  she  believed  to 
be  some  trick  of  the  senses  and  imagination  and  which 
she  could  in  honest  truth  neither  affirm  nor  deny. 
Placed  in  the  witness-box,  she  could  only  say  that  she 
thought  she  saw  a  gray  figure  flit  by  in  the  dusk,  and 
that  she  spoke  under  the  impression  that  it  was  Dr. 
Everard,  but  believed  herself  to  have  been  mistaken. 
Pressed  for  a  reason  for  doubting  his  identity,  she  could 
only  give  his  silence  when  spoken  to,  and  his  subsequent 
denial  at  dinner  of  having  come  in  at  that  hour,  and  it 
required  no  very  keen  intelligence  to  discover  that  Lilian 
wished  to  disbelieve  in  the  apparition.  She  volunteered 
evidence  as  to  the  alleged  meeting  with  Alma  at  mid-day, 
stating  that  she  was  with  Everard  the  whole  time,  and 
that  they  had  seen  no  human  being  beside  themeslves. 

It  did  not  follow  from  this,  as  was  observed,  that  Alma 
was  not  there,  as  Mrs.  Lee  and  Judkins  had  sworn,  or 
that  Everard  had  not  intended  to  meet  her  at  that  hour, 


172 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


had  he  been  able  to  be  alone.  Alma  was  not  in  a  condi- 
tion even  to  make  a  deposition  on  her  bed  of  sickness, 
since  she  continued  more  or  less  delirious  for  some  weeks 
after  her  father's  death ;  but  her  evidence  was  not  deemed 
of  sufficient  consequence  to  justify  a  postponement  of  the 
trial,  which,  after  a  quantity  of  evidence  which  it  would 
be  tedious  to  detail,  ended  in  a  repetition  of  the  coroner's 
verdict;  and  Henry,  doubting  whether  there  were  any 
longer  a  solid  earth  to  stand  on  or  a  just  Heaven  to 
appeal  to,  found  himself  committed  for  trial  at  the  next 
assizes  on  a  capital  charge. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Cyril's  direst  anticipations  had  not  reached  a  capital 
conviction,  though  he  had  feared  manslaughter,  and  even 
Sir  Lionel  Swaynestone  had  his  doubts  as  to  the  justice  of 
the  graver  charge.  Oldport  public  opinion,  which  was 
naturally  stirred  to  its  depths,  was  divided  between  the 
two;  of  the  accused's  innocence  it  had  not  the  slightest 
suspicion.  The  little  town  was  Liberal,  not  to  say  Radi- 
cal, in  its  politics,  and  disposed  to  think  the  worst  of  a 
gentleman  in  his  dealings  with  those  beneath  him. 

Few  people  had  a  good  word  for  a  medical  man  of  good 
birth,  who  was  said  to  have  taken  advantage  of  both  rank 
and  profession  to  work  such  cruel  harm  as  that  imputed 
to  Everard.  The  medical  profession,  strangely  enough, 
has  never  been  popular,  skill  in  the  healing  art  being 
usually  attributed  by  the  unlearned  to  the  favor  of  the 
Evil  One;  a  clever  physician  is  prized  and  feared,  but 
rarehy  loved.  Even  among  the  cultured  there  still  lingers 
a  faint  repulsion  for  the  man  who  is  the  only  welcome 
guest  in  the  day  of  sickness  and  peril,  and  society  is  only 
just  beginning  to  honor  the  cultivated  intellect  and  recog- 
nize the  social  value  of  the  doctor. 

The  case  of  William  Palmer,  the  notorious  poisoner, 
was  then  fresh  in  people's  minds,  and  the  ease  and 
impunity  with  which  a  skillful  physician  can  become  a 
murderer  had  awakened  something  of  the  old  supersti- 
tious horror  of  the  doctors  occult  knowledge,  in  the  pub- 
lic imagination.  Browne-Stockham  and  his  colleague,  a 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  173 

retired  merchant  of  limited  intellect  and  still  more  lim- 
ited knowledge,  and  whose  birth  and  liberal  politics 
prejudiced  him  against  Everard  as  a  scion  of  a  good  old 
Tory  family,  were  both  strongly  prepossessed  against  the 
innocence  of  a  doctor  who  had  manifested  such  unac- 
countable eagerness  to  get  a  footing  in  a  humble  family 
under  pretence  of  exercising  his  skill.  Dr.  Eastbrook 
had  been  ready  and  willing  to  attend  Mrs.  Lee  as  usual  in 
the  preceding  spring,  as  his  evidence  stated;  Dr.  Everard 
had  asked  leave  to  attend  with  him,  because  it  was  an 
unusual  and  very  interesting  case,  a  thing  neither  magis- 
trate's nor  coroner's  jury  could  understand. 

Dr.  Eastbrook,  an  older  man,  and  too  busy  to  be  very 
eager  about  unusual  cases,  was  not  sorry  to  have  Ever- 
ard's  help,  since  the  case  required  more  frequent  visits 
than  he  could  conveniently  give,  and  finally  he  gave  up 
the  case  to  him  altogether.  This  the  public  mind  could 
conceive;  but  Everard's  great  eagerness  and  assiduous 
watching  of  the  sick  woman,  needed  some  motive  to  ac- 
count for  it.  What  motive  could  there  be  save  that  sin- 
ister one  of  seeing  Alma  constantly  and  alone.  Thus 
many  prejudices  gathered  together  to  precipitate  Ever- 
ard's doom,  and  although  the  prejudice  of  class  was  not 
so  strong  against  him  before  the  judge  and  jury  at  the 
assizes,  yet  there  his  profession  exposed  him  to  as  great 
disfavor. 

Everard  once  discussed  with  Cyril  the  subject  of  the 
doctor's  small  popularity  as  compared  with  the  clergy- 
man's, and  Cyril  accounted  for  it  partly  by  the  usefullness 
of  the  surgeon.  "Clergymen,"  he  observed  in  one  of 
those  bursts  of  ingenuous  satire  that  delighted  Everard, 
"are  of  no  use  save  at  two  or  three  august  moments  of 
life — when  a  man  dies,  gets  married,  or  is  born — therefore 
they  inspire  popular  reverence  as  belonging  to  the  orna- 
mental and  superfluous  portion  of  existence — its  fringes, 
so  to  speak.  Doctors,  on  the  contrary,  cannot  be  dis- 
pensed with;  their  services  are  needed  and  obtained  on 
the  most  homely  occasions,  and  men  never  reverence  the 
indispensable.  Bread  and  cheese  is  taken  as  a  matter  of 
course,  but  the  champagne  of  festivals  is  thought  much 
of." 


174 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAX  MAITLAND. 


Cyril  often  affected  a  cynicism  which  amused  Everard 
the  more  from  its  contrast  with  his  supposed  character. 

It  was  difficult  to  move  through  the  dense  crowd  which 
gathered  round  the  Oldport  Town  Hall  when  Everard 
issued  from  it  at  the  conclusion  of  the  magistrates'  in- 
quiry, and  public  opinion  expressed  itself  in  hisses  in 
groans  as  the  vehicle  in  which  he  was  being  conveyed 
moved  slowly,  and  not  without  some  effort  on  the  part 
-of  the  guard  of  police,  through  the  square. 

Not  every  day  was  there  such  an  exciting  event  as  a 
trial  for  murder  in  the  town  hall,  nor  was  it  often 
that  a  culprit  of  such  high  social  standing  appeared  in 
the  well  known  dock.  The  little  town  wore  quite  a 
festal  air.  Street-musicians  and  barrows  laden  witii  nuts, 
oranges,  and  ginger-beer  drove  a  thriving  trade;  and 
there  was  not  a  bar  at  public  house  or  hotel  in  the  place 
which  did  not  receive  an  access  of  custom  during  the 
inquiry.  Nothing  else  was  talked  of,  and  the  experience 
of  ages  has  shown  that  when  mankind  talk  they  must 
drink  something  more  inspiriting  than  water;  also  that 
when  they  drink  that  something  they  invariablv  talk  in 
proportion  to  its  inspiriting  qualities.  Tea-tables  are 
supposed  to  be  the  centres  of  gossip,  and  their 
female  devotees  its  high  priestesses.  This  is  a  popular 
fallacy.  The  ladies  bear  their  part  valiantly,  but  they 
cannot  match  the  men.  From  the  West  End  club  down 
to  the  humblest  public  house,  male  coteries  are  the  great 
sources  of  social  information,  which  arrives  in  a  weak- 
ened second-hand  form  at  the  female  tea-board,  where 
indeed,  it  is  frequently  robbed  for  obvious  reasons  of  its 
most  racy  characteristics. 

On  the  evening  after  the  termination  of  the  great  mur- 
der case,  the  pleasant  bow-windowed  room  behind  the 
bar  at  Burton's  hotel,  which,  as  everybody  knows,  is 
opposite  the  town  hall,  was  occupied  not  only  by  its 
nightly  frequenters,  but  also  by  many  less  familiar 
guests,  who  dropped  in  ostensibly  for  a  cigar  and  brandy 
or  pale  ale  for  the  good  of  the  house,  but  really  to  hear 
the  news,  or  rather  to  enjoy  the  curious  pleasure  experi- 
enced by  human  bipeds  in  retelling  and  rehearsing  from 
many  different  lips  what  they  know  perfectly  already — 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


'75 


like  the  readers  who  enjoy  the  whole  of  "The  Ring  and 
the  Book."  Among  these  grave  citizens  was  Mr.  War- 
ner, the  owner  of  the  large  linen-draper's  shop,  which 
makes  the  High  Street  so  resplendent  with  plate  glass 
and  fashionable  fabrics. 

"If  ever  I  saw  guilty  written  on  a  man's  face,"  he 
observed  thoughtfully,  "it  was  stamped  upon  Ever- 
ard's." 

"I  never  saw  a  fellow  with  such  a  brazen  look,"  re- 
turned young  Cooper,  of  the  great  auctioneering  firm. 
"Eastbrook  says  he  is  awfully  clever." 

"Those  fellows  generally  are,"  added  Strutt,  the  prin- 
cipal tailor,  removing  the  cigar  from  his  lips  and  looking 
lovingly  at  it.  "How  I  pity  those  poor  Maitlands!" 

"Nice  fellow,  young  Maitland!  I've  known  him  from 
a  boy,"  said  Warner.  "They  always  deal  with  us.  He 
was  in  my  shop  on  the  very  day  of  the  murder." 

"Ah!  and  he  was  in  mine  on  that  same  day,"  added 
Strutt.  "Taking  manners  he  has.  Till  he  went  to 
Cambridge,  every  thread  he  wore  came  from  us.  I  know 
him  well." 

"Looks  ill;  trouble,  perhaps,"  chimed  in  young  Mr. 
West,  cashier  at  the  county  bank.  "I  hear  that  this  Ever- 
ard  was  bred  up  with  him." 

"He  was,"  returned  Warner;  "but  this  young  Mait- 
land's  manner  is  up  to  everything.  The  young  scamp! 
he  came  into  our  establishment  on  New  Year's  eve. 
Marches  up  to  me  with  his  hand  held  out,  looking  as  if 
he'd  come  from  London  on  purpose  to  see  me.  'How  are 
you,  Warner?  A  happy  New  Year!'  and  so  on.  'How 
well  you  are  looking!'  inquiries  for  every  creature  in  my 
house.  Presently  asks  if  I  can  cash  a  check  for  him — 
check  of  Sir  Lionel  Swaynestone's,  ten  guineas,  as  good 
paper  as  the  Bank  of  England's,  of  course.  He  wanted 
all  gold,  which  we  couldn't  quite  do,  and  had  to  send  a 
young  man  to  Cave's  for  some  of  it.  This  check  is  for 
charities  in  our  East  End  parish,  which  is  frightfully 
poor,'  said  he,  and  so  on,  and  so  on.  'And  if  you  shouFd 
happen  by  mistake  to  slip  in  an  additional  guinea, 
Warner/  says  his  worship.  Til  promise  you  to  overlook 
it  for  once.'  Well,  there  was  something  in  the  lad's  way 


176  THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

that  got  the  better  of  me,  and  I  was  weak  enough  to  slip 
in  the  extra  coin,  though  we  make  a  point  of  keeping  to 
local  charities;  and,  upon  my  soul,  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
received  the  favor,  not  he.  Those  are  the  manners  to 
make  one's  way  in  the  world  with." 

"And  those  are  the  people  who  deserve  to  get  on,"  in- 
terposed the  auctioner;  "not  for  you  surly,  defiant  fellows 
like  this  Everard.  By  George!  to  see  him  look  at  the 
witnesses.  I  fancy  he'd  like  to  have  the  physicking  of 
some  of  them!" 

"That's  queer  about  the  check,"  said  Strutt,  the  tailor. 
"Why,  he  got  us  to  cash  him  a  check  that  same  day, 
and  would  have  it  gold,  too!  Our  check  was  by  the 
Vicar  of  Oldport — five  guineas." 

"What!  the  same  day?"  asked  another  citizen,  who 
had  been  listening.  "What  did  he  want  with  fifteen  guin- 
eas in  gold  in  his  pocket?" 

"Well,"  replied  Strutt,  "he  said  he  couldn't  bear 
paper;  it  never  seemed  real  to  him.  And  he  got  over  me 
with  his  extra  coins  just  as  he  did  over  Warner.  We 
showed  him  some  new  patent  braces.  'Dear  me,  Strutt!' 
says  he,  'is  it  possible  that  you  don't  know  that  the 
younger  clergy  expect  to  have  these  things  found  them?' 
looking  as  grave  as  a  judge.  'Found  them,  really,  Mr 
Maitland?'  says  I.  'To  be  sure!  braces  and  smoking- 
caps,  worked  by  devout  females.'  Not  much  to  say,  but 
the  quaintness  of  the  manner  tickled  me,  and  one  of  our 
young  men  laughed  out.  Maitland  never  smiled,  but 
asked  for  some  handkerchiefs.  'The  faithful  don't  sup- 
ply handkerchiefs,  unluckily,'  savs  he." 

"He  didn't  look  much  like  joking  in  the  box,  poor 
chap!"  said  Cooper,  reflectively.  "Wonder  what  he 
wanted  with  all  that  gold?" 

"People  are  fond  of  gold,  particularly  ladies  and 
men,"  observed  young  West,  who  was  still  more  sur- 
prised than  the  tradesman  at  Cyril's  passion  for  specie.  He 
stroked  his  mustache  thoughttully,  and  wished  that  pro- 
fessional etiquette  did  not  forbid  him  to  relate  his  anec- 
dote, which  he  thought  might  throw  some  light  on  the 
bag  of  coin  in  the  wood. 

Cyril  had  visited  the  bank  on  that  same  day,  and 


THE  SILEyCE  OF  DEAX  MAITLAND.  ij>j 

drawn  thirty  pounds  on  his  own  account.  West  asked 
him  the  usual  question,  "Notes  or  gold?"  expecting  to 
be  asked  for,  perhaps,  five  pounds  gold,  and  the  rest 
paper,  and  looked  a  little  surprised  at  the  ready  answer 
"Gold." 

Cyril  laughed.  "You  think  it  odd  to  carry  so  much 
gold  about,  Mr.  West?"  he  asked. 

"It  is  unusual,  certainly,  Mr.  Maitland,  and  if,  it 
were  known,  would  be  dangerous." 

"Oh,  no  one  suspects  a  starveling  curate  of  being 
overburdened  with  coin!  A  handful  of  sovereigns  loose 
about  me  is  a  whim  of  mine.  It  makes  me  fancy  myself 
a  rich  man;  there  is  an  Arabian  Nights'  flavor  about  it 
What  a  Dives  you  must  feel  when  you  shovel  up  the  sov- 
ereigns in  that  knowing  little  shovel  of  yours!" 

Mr.  West  replied  that  he  could  more  readily  realize  the, 
sensations  of  Lazarus,  and  asked  his  customer  if  lie  did 
not  frequently  lose  money,  when  he  saw  him  carelessly 
drop  the  three  little  pieces  of  gold  into  his  waistcoat 
pockets. 

"I  might  if  I  stood  on  my  head,"  returned  Cyril,  "and 
that  is  not  probable.  If  you  should  hear  of  a  mild  curate 
being  murdered  and  robbed  in  the  course  of  the  next  few 
days,  you  will  be  able  to  bear  witness  against  the  assassin. 
Nice  weather  for  the  season,  isn't  it?  Good  morning." 

"Fifteen  and  thirty  makes  forty-five,"  mused  young 
West,  "and  two  fellows  would  have  at  least  five  pounds 
gold  more  about  them  in  the  common  course  of  things. 
Yet,  to  hear  Maitland  talk,  you  would  think  he  never 
moved  without  his  pockets  full  of  specie.  A  whim '  of 
his!  Clergy  can  lie  as  well  as  others." 

"I  tell  you  what,"  he  added  aloud,  "I  expect  young 
Maitland  could  open  people's  eyes  about  this  murder,  if 
he  cared  to.  Those  fifteen  sovereigns  went  into  that  bag, 
I'll  lay  any  money." 

"Not  it,"  returned  Cooper.  "A  fellow  wouldn't  ask  a 
parson  to  help  him  in  such  a  scrape,  chum  or 
no  chum." 

"He'd  ask  the  devil  himself,"  interposed  young 
Durant,  who  was  articled  to  his  uncle,  Everard's  solic- 
itor. 


178  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND, 

"In  that  case  he  would  turn  to  a  lawyer,"  retorted  Coop- 
er, slyly. 

"Well,"  pursued  West,  "did  you  ever  see  a  fellow 
stutter  over  his  evidence  like  that?  And  Maitland  so 
ready  with  his  tongue.  He  was  afraid  of  incriminating 
his  friend,  poor  chap !" 

"I  was  sorry  for  Miss  Maitland,"  said  Warner.  "To 
see  her  tremble!  Somebody  said  she  was  engaged  to  Ev- 
erard." 

"No  engagement,  my  uncle  says,"  replied  Dnrant.  "A 
pretty  girl,  like  her  brother,  but  older,  I  suppose." 

"Why,  they  are  twins!  Everybody  knows  the  Mai- 
bourne  twins,"  said  Mr.  Warner.  "An  escape  for  her, 
if  she  cared  for  this  doctor  fellows.  Nice  girl;  our 
people  always  like  to  serve  her.  Do  you  think  they'll 
hang  him,  Strutt?" 

"I  tell  you  what,"  broke  in  Burton,  the  landlord;  "it's 
no  hanging  business.  Ten  to  one,  Lee  attacked  him. 
In  any  case,  there  was  a  stiff  struggle.  Look  at  the  torn 
coat  and  the  black  eye." 

"If  you  try  to  murder  me  with  a  pint  pot,  Burton,  and 
I  round  upon  you,  and  hit  out  straight  till  I'm  down,  it's 
none  the  less  murder,"  said  another  customer. 

"This  will  be  manslaughter  at  Belminstcr,"  said  the 
landlord,  oracularly.  "Who'll  bet  upon  it?  I'll  take 
any  odds." 

Even  more  surprised  than  Mr.  West  was  Lilian,  when, 
on  her  parting  with  Cyril  on  his  return  to  his  duties, 
he  asked  her  to  lend  him  a  couple  of  sovereigns. 

"Why,  you  extravagant  boy!  Have  you  spent  all 
those  we  gave  you  for  your  parish?"  she  asked. 

Cyril  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  know  the 
fellow  of  old,  Lil,  and  how  he  scatters  his  coins.  Only 
three  guineas,  all  told,  you  know." 

"Oh,  Cyll!     And  Sir  Lionel's  ten?" 

"On  paper.  You  can't  pay  your  railway  fare  with  a 
check.  Oh,  yes!  scold  away.  I  ought  to  have  brought 
more  money  with  me,  I  dare  say.  I  never  carry  coin 
about,  dear;  too  sure  to  lose  it.  But,  wonder  of  wonders, 
I  do  chance  to  have  a  five  pound  note.  There!" 


THE   SILENCE  OF  DEAN  HAITLAND. 

Cyril  had  repaired  to  the  Rectory  for  the  first  time  since 
New  Year's  eve  to  bid  his  mother  good-by.  He  could 
not  bear  to  be  there  after  what  had  occurred,  he  said,  and 
he  especially  shrunk,  though  he  did  not  say  so,  from 
meeting  Lilian. 

"Poor  dear  fellow !  sensitive  as  he  is,  no  wonder  he  can 
not  bear  to  be  here,"  commented  Mr.  Maitland.  "It  is 
a  sore  trial  for  us  all,"  he  sighed,  as  Lilian  turned  her 
head  away. 

For  ke  knew  now  of  Lilian's  love ;  she  had  told  him  all 
in  the  terrible  quarter  of  an  hour  in  his  study  on  New 
Year's  day,  when  he  broke  the  horror  of  Everard's  arrest 
to  her,  and  she  reproached  him  passionately  for  his  dis- 
belief in  the  innocence  of  the  accused. 

But  Cyril  was  obliged  to  conquer  his  repugnance,  and 
bid  his  invalid  mother  farewell,  and  the  rush  of  emotion 
which  overcame  him  in  stepping  over  the  threshold,  so 
lately  desecrated  by  Everard's  arrest,  was  thought  only 
natural  and  creditable  to  him.  Lilian  met  him  there, 
and  drew  him  aside  to  her  room,  where  Everard's  gift  of 
Guercino's  Guardian  Angel  gazed  with  his  rapt,  earnest 
gaze  far  away  over  the  sorrowful  earth  to  the  distant 
heaven  of  joy  and  purity. 

"Oh,  Cyril!"  cried  Lilian,  "why  did  you  not  come 
before?  I  have  wanted  you  so.  They  are  all  against 
him.  Every  one  believes  him  guilty  but  me.  Tell  me, 
dear — oh,  tell  me  that  one  at  least  is  true  to  him!  You 
are  his  friend ;  you  cannot  think  him  guilty." 

Cyril  paused,  his  own  emotion  smothered,  as  it  were 
by  this  outburst  of  Lilian's,  an  outburst  so  foreign  to  her 
usual  calm  self-control  and  restrained  strength;  then  he 
opened  his  arms  in  a  rush  of  the  old,  lifelong  affection, 
and  clasped  Lilian  to  his  heart. 

"I  do  believe  in  him,"  he  said;  "he  is  as  innocent  as 
an  unborn  babe.  I  know  it — I  know  it!" 

"Dear  Cyril,  I  knew  you  would  .be  true,"  replied 
Lilian.  "What  shall  we  do,  Cyril?  Oh!  what  shall  we 
do?" 

"What,  indeed?"  returned  Cyril,  overcome  by  the  un- 
accustomed passion  of  Lilian,  whose  tears  mingled  with 
his  own,  as  the  twins  cried  in  each  other's  arras,  just 


SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

as  they  had  done  in  the  old  days  of  childhood. 

"Keep  up  your  heart,  Lill,"  said  Cyril,  caressingly, 
when  they  had  recovered  themselves  a  little.  "After  all, 
what  is  it?  An  idiotic  mistake,  a  foolish  mare's  nest, 
invented  by  these  stupid  rustics.  A  little  inquiry  will 
set  all  right." 

"But  this  verdict — oh,  Cyril!"  exclaimed  Lilian,  let- 
ting her  head  droop  once  more  on  her  brother's  shoulder, 
and  weeping  afresh. 

"What  is  the  verdict?"  asked  Cyril,  rather  trem- 
ulously, as  he  stroked  the  rich  waves  of  Lilian's  hair,  and 
rejoiced  that  she  could  not  see  his  face.  "Surely 
not—" 

"Murder,"  replied  Lilian,  in  low,  shuddering  tones. 

Cyril  uttered  an  exclamation.  Was  it  an  oath  ?  Lilian 
did  not  even  pause  to  commend  it  to  the  recording  angel's 
lenience.  Blue  fire  shot  from  his  eyes,  and  he  ground 
his  teeth. 

"Asses!"  he  exclaimed,  at  last.  "Never  mind  the 
coroner  and  the  stupid  verdict,  darling,"  he  added,  sooth- 
ingly. "Coroners  happily  do  not  administer  justice.  A 
very  little  evidence  will  set  things  straight.  Henry  was 
not  in  the  wood.  They  cannot  prove  him  to  have  been 
in  two  places  at  once.  Widow  Dove  being  out  that  night 
was  unlucky." 

"Everything  seems  unlucky,"  sighed  Lilian.  "The 
stars  in  their  courses  fight  against  him,  Cyril." 

Lilian  raised  her  head,  and  looked  sorrowfully  and 
appealing,  as  it  seemed,  into  her  brother's  eyes;  and  a 
rush  of  deep  affection,  springing  from  the  purest  sources 
in  his  nature,  clouded  the  young  man's  glance,  and  he 
clasped  her  once  more  protectingly  to  his  breast,  feeling, 
as  in  the  days  of  his  spotless  boyhood,  that  no  human 
being  could  ever  be  so  close  and  dear  to  him  as  this  twin- 
sister,  whose  being  was  so  closely  and  mysteriously  inter- 
woven with  his  own.  All  affections  and  ties  that  had 
since  arisen  seemed  as  nothing  in  comparison  with  this 
one  strong  bond  of  primal  instinctive  love;  even  the  bond 
of  marriage  seemed  but  a  secondary  thing  by  the  side  of 
it. 

The  twins  had  drifted  apart  of  late  years.     They  had 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  jgi 

thought  that  the  old  childish  union  must  naturally  grow 
weaker  with  the  increasing  complex  claim  of  mature  life ; 
but  now  they  realized  that  it  had  only  sunk  out  of  sight 
for  a  time,  like  an  underground  stream,  to  break  forth 
again  with  renewed  power.  Lilian's  weakness  and 
momentary  self-abandonment  called  out  all  that  was  man- 
liest and  best  in  Cyril.  Hers,  he  knew,  was  the  deeper, 
stronger  nature.  He  leaned  habitually  on  her,  and  now 
he  was  touched  to  find  her  leaning  on  him ;  and  the  tears 
they  shed  together  renewed  and  reconsecrated  the  strong 
kinship  between  them,  like  some  holy  chrism. 

He  felt  a  happier  and  better  man  than  he  had  been  for 
many  weary  months  after  that  mingling  of  tears,  and  the 
thought  flashed  through  him,  with  a  mingling  of  pain 
and  sweetness,  that  they  were  too  closely  united  not  to 
stand  or  fall  together;  either  he  must  drag  Lilian  down, 
or  she  must  raise  him  up.  Lilian  would  surely,  he 
thought,  as  he  gazed  into  her  clear,  deep,  beautiful  eyes, 
be  in  some  way  his  salvation.  In  the  mean  time  fte 
soothed  and  comforted  her. 

"You  see,  Lill,"  he  said,  "somebody  killed  poor  Lee, 
probably  by  accident.  And  if  things  came  to  the  worst 
with  Everard,  that  somebody  would  certainly  come  for- 
ward and  clear  him." 

This  seemed  curious  reasoning,  and  yet  it  com- 
forted Lilian  strangely.  "My  great  hope  is  in  Alma," 
she  said.  "I  am  sure  she  can  throw  light  upon  the 
affair." 

A  hot  flame  shot  over  Cyril's  face,  and  he  turned  his 
gaze  from  his  sister's  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 
''No  doubt,"  he  replied. 

"And  then,"  continued  Lilian,  lifting  her  head  with  a 
proud,  indignant  flush,  "this  hideous  aspersion  must 
vanish." 

"Good  heavens!  Lilian,  do  you  mean  that  they — " 
"You  have  not  followed  the  evidence,  Cyril?"  asked 
Lilian.  "Get  the  Advertiser,  and  you  will  see.  Yes, 
they  dare — they  actually  dare,"  she  continued,  drawing 
herself  up,  and  walking  up  and  down  with  gestures  of 
indignant  disdain,  while  her  eyes  shot  forth  such  a  stream 


iSz  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MA.ITLAND. 

of  light  as  Cyril's  were  wont  to  do,  "to  charge  him  with 
Alma's  ruin!" 

The  twins  had  been  looking  more  alike  than  ever  dur- 
ing their  impassioned  interview,  till  Lilian  in  her  fiery 
indignation  seemed  like  an  intensified  Cyril;  but  now 
the  softness  and  calm  strength,  which  seemed  to  have 
passed  from  the  sister  to  the  brother,  suddenly  left  the 
latter,  and  his  face  changed  and  hardened,  but  he  said 
nothing. 

"My  hope  is  that  Alma  may  not  die,"  continued 
Lilian,  not  observing  him  in  the  intensity  of  her  passion. 

"Die!"  interrupted  Cyril,  in  a  deep,  strange  voice, 
while  his  breath  came  gaspingly.  "Is  there  danger?'' 

"Yes;  but  God  is  good.  He  will  not  let  her  die  till  she 
has  proved  Henry's  innocence." 

Cyril  was  trembling  with  a  terrible  hope,  and  yet  a 
dread  of  what  he  dared  not  even  in  thought  acknowledge. 
He  could  not  speak  for  some  moments,  but  looked  out 
into  the  chill  garden,  smothering  this  fierce  emotion, 
and  striving  to  stifle  a  wish  that  formed  itself  in  spite  of 
his  better  nature.  At  last  he  turned  to  Lilian,  whose 
unexhausted  passion  continued  to  pour  itself  out  in  the 
same  strain,  with  the  radiant  smile  whose  magnetism  so 
few  could  resist. 

"What  idiots  we  are,  Lil!''  he  said,  "wasting  our 
fears  upon  this  phantom.  Old  Hal  will  be  here  laughing 
at  the  absurd  mistake  in  a  week.  There  needs  no  inter- 
position of  Providence  to  arrange  that  simple  mater. 
And  if  it  were  not  so,"  he  added,  his  brow  darkening, 
"he  must  be  free — at  any  cost — at  any  cost,"  he  repeated 
below  his  breath. 

"At  any  cost,"  he  repeated,  as  he  drove  his  father 
into  Oldport;  and  he  turned  and  looked  upon  the  gray 
head  by  his  side  with  a  strange  mixture  of  tenderness  and 
dismay.  Mr.  Maitland  was  conversing  cheerily  as  they 
drove  along,  with  a  view  to  keeping  up  Cyril's  spirits, 
and  carefully  avoiding  the  subject  which  was  uppermost 
in  everybody's  mind. 

"So  Marion  declines  to  come  to  us/  he  said,  at  last.    - 

"Yes,"  replied  Cyril,  in  the  plaintive  tone  with  which 
he  usually  discussed  small  annoyances.  "She  says 


THE  XlLEXCt!  OF  DEAN  MAITLA.ND.  183 

that  her  place  is  at  Woodlands,  under  present  circum- 
stances." 

"Poor  dear!  she  is  a  brave  girl.  Perhaps  she  is  right. 
While  George  and  his  wife  are  there  she  will  be  cared  for. 
Yes,  she  is  right.  Yet  for  Lilian's  sake — well — Why, 
Cyril,  lad,"  he  added,  as  Cyril  lifted  his  hat  for  a  moment 
to  cool  his  hot  forehead,  just  as  they  were  passing  the 
Temple  and  the  fatal  wood  above  it,  "that  is  a  nasty  bruise 
on  your  head.  How  did  you  get  it?" 

"That?"  replied  Cyril,  replacing  his  hat  with  a  smile 
and  gently  flickering  the  pony  into  a  better  pace.  "Oh,  I 
did  that  ages  ago.  I  ran  against  a  door  in  the  dark. 
Here  are  the  Swaynestones.  How  well  Ethel  sits  her 
horse!  Maude  is  inclined  to  be  heavy." 

"Those  poor  Maitlands!"  Maude  Swaynestone  was 
saying  to  her  sister.  "How  glad  Cyril  must  be  to  get 
back  to  his  parish!" 

"How  he  must  hate  papa!"  returned  Ethel,  hotly, 
"or  despise  him  for  arresting  an  innocent  man  on  such 
flimsy  grounds!" 

"My  dear  Ethel,  your  weakness  for  Doctor  Everard 
carries  you  over  the  bounds  of  reason." 

When  Cyril  reached  the  station,  he  obtained  every 
local  paper  published,  and  forgot  to  pay  for  them  in  his 
eagerness  till  gently  reminded. 

"Just  in  time,  sir,"  the  stall-keeper  said,  as  he  handed 
him  his  change.  "We  have  no  copies  of  the  Adver- 
tiser left.  All  the  papers  printed  double  editions,  too. 
The  Everards  and  Maitlands  are  so  well  known  in  these 
parts." 

"Are  they?''  replied  Cyril,  turning  away  with  a  flash  of 
blue  fire  from  his  eyes. 

"Well,  I  am  blowed!"  cried  the  stall-keeper's  boy 
assistant,  doubled  up  with  laughing.  "If  that  ain't  young 
Maitland  hisself!" 

Cyril's  hands  shook  as  he  opened  the  sheets  and  ran  his 
eye  down  the  columns  till  he  saw,  in  large  capitals,  "The 
Swaynestone  Murder.  Adjourned  inquest.  Verdict." 
He  held  the  paper  so  as  to  shield  his  face  from  the  gaze 
of  his  fellow-travellers,  and  read  with  growing  horror, 
until  cold  drops  stood  on  his  forehead,  and  his  Tips  grew 
dry  and  hard. 


184  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

"I  never  dreamed  of  this,"  he  muttered.  "Heaven  is 
my  witness,  I  never  dreamed  of  it!" 

Life  seemed  to  him  one  hopeless  tangle  of  error  and 
misery,  against  which  he  was  powerless  to  strive.  Lab- 
yrinth after  labyrinth  seemed  to  draw  him  within  their 
interminable  folds,  till  his  brain  was  dazed  and  his  heart 
sick.  Nowhere  could  he  catch  the  clew  to  any  straight 
course;  by  no  means  could  he  unwind  the  deadly  coil 
that  Fate  had  wound  so  closely  and  thickly  round  him; 
as  he  thought,  forgetting  his  own  share  in  the  work. 
What  was  the  good,  he  wondered,  of  being  born  into  a 
world  so  complex,  so  bewildering,  so  full  of  complicated 
motive  and  baffled  purpose,  so  beset  by  the  devil  and  all 
his  works?  He  felt  as  weak  as  any  weaned  child,  as 
terrified  as  a  boy  in  the  dark,  in  the  presence  of  the 
gigantic  evils  striding  upon  him;  his  will  seemed  to  melt 
like  wax  within  him.  Then  he  remembered  Lilian  in 
her  unwonted  passion,  and  the  memory  was  like  the  balm 
of  morning  breezes  through  the  open  window  of  a  sick- 
room, and  he  made  a  stand  against  the  mental  and  moral 
swoon  which  threatened  him.  Yes,  in  Lilian,  his  bet- 
ter self,  the  saving  clause  of  his  being  spoke,  and  he 
murmured  to  himself  once  more,  "At  any  cost." 

Some  fresh  travellers  got  in  at  Belminster,  and  Cyril  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  them,  which  became  ani- 
mated as  they  touched  upon  congenial  topics. 

"What  a  brilliant  lad!"  one  of  them  observed  to  his 
companion,  as  they  drove  away  from  Waterloo;  "one  of 
the  half  dozen  who  can  talk." 

"It  will  be  all  right,"  Cyril  thought  to  himself,  as  lie 
sped  eastward  in  his  hansom  through  the  crowded  streets; 
"something  will  turn  up — some  happy  chance." 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAX  MAITLAND. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Early  on  a  bleak  spring  morning,  cold  with  the  bitter 
chill  which  corres  only  at  the  moment  just  before  the 
dawn  of  day  or  the  turn  of  winter,  and  strikes  into  the 
very  marrow  of  the  bones,  Cyril  Maitland  was  entering 
Belminster  by  the  steep  road  descending  into  the  ancient 
city  from  the  windy  dawns  which  partially  surround  it. 

Early  as  it  was,  he  had  walked  far,  having  risen  from 
his  sleepless  couch  in  utter  restlessness,  and  sought  to 
still  his  inward  fever  by  bodily  exercise.  A  cup  of  milk 
at  a  farm-house,  and  a  crust  of  bread,  which  he  tried  in 
vain  to  swallow,  formed  his  frugal  breakfast.  He  had  in 
his  hand  a  manual  of  Lenten  devotion,  which  he  could 
not  read.  His  beautiful  eyes  were  brilliant  with  fever, 
and  appeared  all  the  larger  from  the  dark  circles  beneath 
them.  "I  cannot  bear  this  much  longer,"  he  murmured 
to  himself,  as  he  descended  the  steep  chalky  road,  and 
gazed  mechanically  on  the  gray  old  city,  with  its  solemn 
towers  and  buttressed  minster,  lying  in  the  gray,  chill 
light  beneath  the  leaden  sky;  "my  brain  will  give  way."1 

On  the  slope  of  the  opposite  hill  were  some  large 
gloomy  buildings,  one  of  which,  the  county  jail,  struck 
upon  his  sense  with  sickening  horror.  Everard  was  there 
to  undergo  his  trial;  for  nothing  had  occurred,  as  Cyril 
so  fondly  hoped,  to  deliver  him,  and  he  was  beginning  to 
wonder  if  it  were  possible  that,  in  spite  of  all  the  compli- 
cated machinery  of  English  justice,  an  innocent  man 
could  suffer  the  penalty  of  a  great  crime.  Today,  Cyril 
thought,  it  must  be  decided.  If  the  wished-for  some- 
thing failed  to  turn  up,  one  terrible  alternative  remained, 
and  Henry  must  be  delivered,  as  he  had  told  Lilian,  "at 
any  cost" 

He  walked  hurriedly  on,  as  those  walk  who  are  chased 
by  terrible  cares — with  something  of  the  weary  haste  of 
wild  animals  ever  on  the  alert  for  lurking  danger — be- 
tween the  old-fashioned  timbered  cottages,  stuck  at  pic- 
hiresque  angles,  as  if  dropped  by  chance  on  the  hillside. 
Und  becoming  more  numerous  till  they  fell  into  contin- 
uous line,  as  he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill  where  the 


186  THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

river  Bele  wound  its  quiet  course  through  level  mead  and 
round  about  the  old  houses,  which  lay  humbly,  as  it  were, 
at  the  feet  of  the  lordly  cathedral  and  the  wealthy  streets 
of  the  ancient  city.  Here  a  bridge  spanned  the  stream, 
and  a  little  way  back  from  the  road  stood  a  quaint  mill, 
built  over  an  archway,  to  admit  the  passage  of  the  swift- 
flowing  water,  and  overgrown  on  its  gabled,  weather- 
stained  stone  front  by  a  vine,  on  which  a  leaf  or  two  yet 
lingered,  and  about  which  pigeons  clustered,  hoping  for 
sunshine,  and  sheltered  from  the  bleak  east  wind. 

Cyril  seated  himself  on  the  low  stone  wall  of  the  bridge, 
and  looked  down  into  the  dark  stream,  on  the  banks  of 
which  the  cottages  clustered  thickly  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  road.  His  watch  told  him  that  he  had  not  yet 
consumed  all  the  weary  time,  and  the  running  water  had 
a  strange  attraction  for  him — the  idea  of  sinking  beneath 
it.  and  being  hurried  on  away  and  away  forever  was  so 
restful,  though  he  smiled  bitterly  at  the  thought  that  it 
was  scarcely  deep  enough  to  end  a  man's  troubles.  A 
child  had  been  drowned  there  from  a  cottage  garden  the 
day  before,  but  he  did  not  know  this. 

The  musical  chimes  of  the  city  told  the  quarter  in 
melodious  vibrations;  bugles  were  ringing  from  the 
barracks  on  the  heights;  the  hum  of  busy  city  life  was 
rising  and  deepening.  When  the  hour  struck,  he  would 
have  to  join  Lilian  and  his  father  in  the  court,  to  watch 
the  trial,  and  perhaps  bear  witness.  He  almost  envied 
Everard  his  place  in  the  prisoner's  dock.  He  at  least  \vas 
tortured  by  no  doubts,  he  had  no  wrestlings  with  a  weak 
and  divided  will;  his  course  lay  plain  and  straight  before 
him.  Many  thoughts  passed  through  Cyril's  mind  as  he 
sat  there,  regardless  of  the  bleak  wind,  and  watched  the 
unresting  water,  and  once  more  he  lived  through  the 
scene  of  the  previous  Sunday. 

His  rector,  with  cruel  kindness,  seeing  that  the  young 
man  was  overwrought  by  the  labors  which  he  discharged 
with  such  apparently  conscientious  zeal,  and  tortured  by 
anxiety  for  his  friend,  had  bidden  him  take  a  little 
holiday,  and  go  home  to  prepare  himself  for  the  ordeal  of 
Everard's  trial.  Thus,  on  the  Sunday,  Cyril  found  him- 
self once  more  in  the  old  familiar  home,  now  so  distaste- 
ful to  him,  through  bitter  associations.  The  Malbourne 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAX  MAITLAXD.  487 

witnesses,  including  most  of  the  Maitland  household,  were 
subpoenaed  for  the  following  day,  and  all  were  present  at 
church,  most  of  them  with  a  lively  remembrance. of  Cyril's 
sermon  on  Innocent's  Day,  when  the  slayer  and  the  slain 
had  been  there  also.  Today  Cyril  enjoyed  the  rare  lux- 
ury of  forming  one  of  the  congregation;  but  his  father, 
having  mentioned  at  luncheon,  with  a  profound  sigh,  that 
it  was  christening  Sunday,  Cyril,  knowing  that  neither  he 
nor  Mr.  Marvyn  enjoyed  the  duty,  offered  to  take  it  for 
him. 

"They  make  me  do  nearly  all 'the  baptisms  at  St. 
Chad's,"  he  said,  smiling  at  the  recollection  of  his  fellow- 
curates'  frequent  requests  to  relieve  them  of  this  duty, 
"because  the  babies  seldom  cry  with  me.  And  they  are 
not  engaging  babies,"  he  added;  "utter  strangers  to 
water,  much  less  soap.  We  frequently  have  children  of 
jix  or  seven,  and  they  need  management." 

So  when  the  time  came,  Cyril  rose  from  his  place  in 
die  chancel,  and  walked  down  the  church  to  the  font, 
.round  which  three  infants  were  ranged  with  their  spon- 
sors. The  congregation  turned  to  the  west,  and  Lilian 
•matched  her  brother  with  loving  reverence,  as  he  poured 
•die  water  into  the  font,  and  began  the  solemn  service  in 
his  perfect  manner,  giving  each  word  its  proper  weight 
and  purest  enunciation  in  his  matchless  voice,  which  was 
tike  an  organ  with  many  stops.  The  bright  afternoon 
sun  of  early  spring  fell  upon  him  and  the  pathetic  little 
group  of  poor  men's  babes  brought  for  his  ministrations, 
and  Lilian  no  longer  wondered  at  his  being  chosen  for 
the  duty  at  St.  Chad's,  when  she  saw  him  bend  and  take 
the  children  with  reverent  tenderness  in  his  arms,  and, 
by  some  subtle  magnetism  in  his  touch,  hush  incipient 
wailings  into  peaceful,  wide-eyed  quiet. 

The  most  impressive  and  touching  of  all  the 
Church's  offices,  this  baptismal  service  seemed,  under 
Cyril's  ministration,  yet  more  solemn  and  pathetic,  and 
the  most  unimaginative  and  commonplace  woman,  whose 
child  was  restored  to  her  arms  in  that  careful  and  digni- 
fied manner,  could  not  but  feel  that  something  august 
and  wonderful  had  befallen  the  unconscious  infant  in  the 
interval.  George  Joseph,  a  lusty  babe  whose  vigorous 
roars  had  occasioned  his  being  transported  three  times 


X88  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  UA1TLAND. 

to  the  churchyard,  subsided  into  cherubic  quiet  after  ont 
or  two  rebellious  efforts  at  a  scream,  which  the  graceful 
young  priest  soothed  with  scarcely  perceptible  gestures, 
and  began  his  Christian  course  in  a  most  laudable  man- 
ner; then  came  a  tiny  Elizabeth  Jane,  who  conducted 
herself  with  equal  propriety.  Then  Cyril  turned  to  ih<c, 
third  infant,  which  he  did  not  recognize  by  its  friends., 
as  he  had  the  others. 

It  was  carried  by  a  widow  woman,  who  lived  alone  in 
the  village,  and  was  known  far  and  wide  as  the  friend  of 
the  friendless,  and  the  natural  visitor  of  every  house  in 
which  there  was  trouble  of  any  kind ;  she  was  also  the  in- 
variable sponsor  of  infants  who  conferred  no  credit  on 
their  friends.  This  child  was  better  dressed  than  thtv 
cottagers'  children,  all  in  white,  with  black  ribbons  at  its 
shoulders.  It  was  a  baby  that  no  woman,  from  a  queen 
downward,  could  have  looked  upon  without  longing  to 
kiss,  and  was  uttering  various  little  dove-like  murmurs, 
which  ocasionally  rose  to  a  crow  of  joy,  and  which  tin; 
magic  touch,  and  perhaps  the  glance  of  the  priest,  quieted 
into  the  softest  sounds. 

"Name  this  child,"  said  Cyril,  turning  to  the  spon- 
sors, and  expecting  to  hear  some  feminine  appellation, 
a  female  having  already  by  mistake  taken  precedence  of  it. 

"Benjamin  Lee," replied  the  widow,  in  clear,  high  tones, 
which  seemed  to  ring  through  the  silence  of  the  church 
and  pierce  into  the  very  core  of  Cyril's  heart.  He  stag- 
gered, and  his  face  for  a  moment  was  whiter  than  the  in- 
fant's dress  or  his  own  stainless  robe.  Not  the  child 
which  St.  Christopher  bore  on  his  giant  shoulders  pressed 
with  a  more  overwhelming  weight  upon  him  than  did  thi:> 
cooing  babe,  looking  up  with  the  beautiful,  far-off  gaze  of 
baby  innocence  into  his  white  face,  press  upon  the  shud- 
dering arms  which  infolded  him. 

For  some  seconds  a  dead  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
child's  happy  murmurs,  filled  the  church.  The  whole 
congregation  saw  the  terrible  emotion  with  which  Cyril 
was  shaken — his  father,  Mr.  Marvyn,  who  was  looking 
down  pitifully  from  the  reading-desk  and  reproaching 
himself  for  not  having  prepared  his  pupil,  and  thus  saved 
him  from  the  shock,  the  Swaynestones,  the  Garretts,  hin 
mother  and  Lilian,  all  the  old  familiar  faces;  and  then* 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  jgg 

was  a  kind  of  sympathetic  stir  through  the  congregation, 
and  a  feeling  of  terror  lest  the  poor  young  fellow  should 
give  way  utterly,  and  be  unable  to  continue  the  office. 

But  after  those  few  seconds,  which  seemed  an  eternity 
to  Cyril,  he  mastered  himself  with  a  strong  effort,  under 
the  stimulus  of  the  many-eyed  sympathetic  glances  upon 
him,  and  plunging  his  right  hand  into  the  holy  water, 
went  quietly  on,  "Benjamin  Lee,  I  baptize  thee,"  etc., 
with  his  accustomed  solemnity,  nor  did  his  voice  falter 
once  till  he  returned  the  infant  to  its  guardian's  arms,  ad- 
justing its  robes  with  his  usual  care  as  he  did  so;  only 
there  was  a  deeper  meaning  than  ever  in  his  voice  as  he 
spoke  the  pathetic  words  of  the  ritual,  especially  these: 
"that  he  may  not  be  ashamed — to  manfully  fight  under 
Christ's  banner  against  sin,  the  world,  and  the  devil;" 
and  Lilian,  who  so  seldom  displayed  any  emotion,  cried 
unrestrainedly  at  this  passage. 

But  more  than  once  during  the  remainder  of  the  bap- 
tismal office,  Cyril,  instead  of  reading  "they"  and 
"them,"  for  the  three  infants,  read  "he"  and  "him," 
especially  at  the  concluding  exhortation,  when  he  looked 
abstractedly  at  the  now  sleeping  Benjamin  Lee,  and  said, 
"Ye  are  to  take  care  of  this  child,"  etc. 

Then  he  returned  with  a  slow  and  weary  step  to  the 
chancel,  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  pavement,  and  the  Nunc 
Dimittis  ringing  in  his  ears,  with  a  strange  feeling  of  its 
inappropriateness — for  how  different  was  his  case  from 
that  of  the  aged  Simeon  with  the  Redeemer  in  his  arms! 
He  felt  the  sympathetic  gaze  of  the  congregation,  who 
were  still  watching  his  haggard,  troubled  face;  and  sat 
during  the  sermon  with  that  face,  and  all  the  passions 
which  moved  it,  covered  by  the  sleeve  of  his  surplice,  like 
that  of  Ulysses  at  the  feast. 

He  had  looked  down  fearfully  upon  the  sweet  baby 
face  resting  so  placidly  against  his  snowy  dress,  the 
"priestly  ephod,"  as  he  had  fondly  called  it  with  Keble, 
and  his  bowels  yearned  over  the  helpless  creature  so 
unconscious  of  its  doom  and  of  all  the  tragedy  caused  by 
its  innocent,  unwelcome  existence;  he  looked  in  search 
of  some  likeness  that  might  betray  its  unknown  parent. 
Was  it  fancy  that  he  seemed  to  see,  now  a  look  of  the 
slain  man,  now  a  look  of  his  own  father,  but  on  the 


jgo  THE  8ILEXCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

whole  and  with  fearful  distinctness,  the  features  and 
expression  of  Lilian?  Would  others  see  this,  and  would 
they  wonder  at  the  accidental  resemblance,  or  did  it 
exist  only  in  his  own  overwrought,  fevered  fancv?  He 
could  only  pray  that  the  child  might  grow  up  with  other 
looks;  yet  dared  he,  ought  he,  so  to  pray? 

This  was  the  scene  re-enacted  in  his  fancy,  as  he  sat 
on  the  low  stone  wall  and  watched  the  river's  unceasing 
flow,  and  felt  no  chill  in  the  biting  wind.  The  little 
head  seemed  to  rest  still  on  his  throbbing  breast;  the 
sweet,  deep  eyes  to  gaze  up  into  his;  and  the  tiny  dim- 
pled fist  to  clutch  vaguely  at  the  folds  of  the  priestly 
garment  stirring  the  wildly  beating  heart  beneath  it 
with  an  emotion  that  wras  not  wholly  pain,  while  he  still 
seemed  to  read  those  solemn  words  of  baptismal  renun- 
ciation and  manful  fighting  under  the  sacred  banner — 
words  that  strike  with  such  awful  reproach  on  the  erring 
soldier  of  the  cross. 

Then  he  thought  of  Lilian,  and  his  heart  seemed  to 
swoon  within  him;  and  then  of  Marion,  the  center  of  all 
his  hopes;  and  he  could  look  no  longer  on  the  flowing 
\vatcr,  but  rose,  suddenly  conscious  of  the  bleak  wind  in 
which  he  shuddered,  and  hurried  on  like  one  driven  by 
thought,  his  eyes  on  the  dusty  road.  Better,  far  better, 
it  would  have  been  to  have  taken  the  step  he  medi- 
tated at  such  dreadful  cost  to  himself  at  the  very  first,  be- 
fore this  fearful  coil  wound  itself  around  Everard;  every 
moment's  delay  made  it  worse,  and  now  there  was  scarcely 
room  for  fate  to  alter  things. 

A  beautiful  music  rose  mellow  and  solemn  upon  his 
distracted  ear,  and  floated  softly  over  the  smoke-wreathed 
city — the  cathedral  bells  calling  to  morning  prayer. 
Others  sounded  from  the  various  churches  in  differing  ca- 
dence, but  mostly  in  monotone,  and  blended  with  the  deli- 
cate chiming  of  the  minster;  none  were  silent,  since  it  was 
Lent,  and  the  melodious  confusion  penetrated  with  sweet 
pain  the  very  depths  of  Cyril's  heart.  It  recalled  the 
pleasant  chiming  of  the  wagon  bells  as  he  heard  them  on 
the  fatal  evening  which  began  all  this  trouble,  and  it 
reminded  him,  by  its  association  with  the  cathedral, 
whose  light  flying  buttresses  were  now  springing  just  over 
his  head,  of  all  the  hopes  to  which  he  was  about  to  bid 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


191 


farewell  forever.  Marion's  charming  face  hovered  once 
more  smilingly  before  him,  and  a  stifled  sob  escaped  him. 
Not  many  men,  he  thought,  had  such  high  hopes  to 
renounce,  and  he  walked  on  up  the  steep  street,  past  the 
quaint,  arcaded  houses  and  the  delicately  carved  and 
fretted  Gothic  cross,  a  man  broken  in  his  youth,  utterly 
wrecked  at  starting,  with  a  cup  to  drink  that  was  beyond 
his  strength. 

A  ragged  child  approached  him  with  tremulous  voice 
and  large  pleading  eyes,  offering  primroses  to  sell,  and 
Cyril  stopped  even  in  his  misery — for  he  loved  children, 
and  they  loved  him — to  stroke  its  face  and  pity  its  chilled, 
bare  limbs,  and  give  it  pence  and  kindly  words  before  he 
hurried  on.  The  boy  somehow  recalled,  by  his  wide, 
clear  gaze,  the  unacknowledged  child  he  had  baptized. 
Would  that  child  be  thus  barefoot?  he  wondered.  Had 
this  boy  a  father  who  suffered  him  to  shiver  in  the  bitter 
blast?  The  sweet  bell-music  went  floating  drowsily  on. 
Cyril  found  his  father  and  Lilian,  and  finally  reached  the 
court. 

The  grand  jury  had  found  a  true  bill  of  murder  against 
Everard,  and  he  now  appeared  in  answer  to  that  indict- 
ment. 

Lilian  looked  up,  as  Cyril  dared  not,  when  Everard 
entered,  and  walked  with  his  usual  firm  step  and  erect 
bearing,  but  with  an  air  of  unaccustomed  hauteur,  into 
the  prisoner's  dock.  A  young  emperor  could  not  have 
ascended  a  throne  with  less  humility  or  a  gaze  more  unfal- 
tering than  that  with  which  the  usually  unassuming, 
gentle-mannered  Everard  mounted  the  dreadful  eminence 
of  the  accused  criminal.  He  looked  steadily,  some  said 
defiantly,  all  round  the  building,  measuring  judge  and 
jury,  counsel  and  all  with  a  comprehensive  gaze;  it  was 
only  when  his  eyes  fell  on  theJVIaitlands  that  a  hot  flush 
sprang  over  his  face  and  a  quiver  troubled  it  for  a 
moment. 

His  features  were  sharpened  by  anxiety  and  suffering, 
and  there  were  dark  circles  under  his  eves;  but  the  con- 
finement had  not  impaired  his  magnificent  strength,  and 
the  reporters  described  him  as  a  powerful  and  resolute 
man,  with  a  defiant  air.  When  called  upon  to  plead,  his 
"Not  guilty,"  with  an  emphasis  on  the  negative,  sounded 


I92  THE  BILEXCB  OF  DEAN  MAITLAXD. 

like  a  challenge  flung  in  the  teeth  of  the  whole  world, 
which  truly  seemed  to  be  arraigned  against  him. 

The  judge  did  not  like  his  looks;  he  thought  such  a 
bearing  unsuitable  to  an  accused  person,  whether  inno- 
cent or  guilty.  He  looked  in  vain  for  any  signs  of  quail- 
ing in  the  honest  hazel  eyes,  full  of  the  pride  of  indig- 
nant innocence.  The  judge's  own  gaze  plainly  expressed 
to  those  who  knew  the  man,  "This  fellow  will  have  to  bite 
the  dust." 

Mr.  Justice  Manby  was  well  known  as  a  hanging  judge, 
and,  though  he  was  as  just  and  upright  as  perhaps  only 
English  judges  are,  he  was  human,  and  thus  liable  to 
have  his  judgment  biased  by  prejudice,  and  he  conceived 
a  prejudice  at  first  glance  against  the  haughty  prisoner 
arraigned  before  him.  Yet  he  thought  himself  prejudiced 
the  other  way.  Because  he  was  a  strong  Conservative;  a 
staunch  upholder  of  hereditary  right  and  class  distinc- 
tions, he  feared  lest  he  should  unconsciously  incline  to 
lenience  towards  criminals  of  gentle  birth,  and  said  within 
himself  that  he  would  not  spare  any  for  his  gentleness^ 
but  rather  consider  how  far  more  guilty  such  are  than  the 
uncultured  herd,  who  scarcely  know  their  right  hand 
from  their  left.  The  jury,  whose  minds  were  full  of 
Palmer  and  his  diabolical  strychnine  poisonings,  and  who 
felt  that  strong  measures  must  be  taken  to  cripple  the 
fearful  power  the  doctor's  position  of  trust  and  unfet- 
tered responsibility  in  homes  given  him,  were  also  preju- 
diced against  him  by  this  haughty  bearing,  and  esteemed 
him  to  be  a  villain  eminently  dangerous  to  societv.  Truly, 
as  Lilian  said,  the  stars  in  their  courses  seemed  to  fight 
against  Everard. 

Even  his  counsel  did  not  believe  his  statement  of  the 
facts,  and  advised  him  very  earnestly  to  plead  guilty  to 
the  minor  charge.  "How  can  I  plead  guilty  when  I  am 
innocent?"  thundered  Everard.  "I  tell  you  I  never 
even  saw  the  man  after  the  Sunday,  and  had  quite  as 
much  motive  for  killing  you  as  him;  indeed,  more," 
he  added,  for  he  felt  inclined  to  personal  violence  on 
some  of  those  who  so  sorely  misjudged  him,  particularly 
this  barrister,  who  was  master  of  the  peculiar  facial 
expression  that  may  be  called  the  barrister's  sneer,  the 
expression  of  a  man  who  has  seen  too  much  of  the  wrong 


THE   SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


193 


side  of  human  nature.  The  counsel  understood  the  flash 
of  his  client's  eyes,  and,  when  he  looked  at  his  powerful 
frame,  was  glad  that  he  was  not  like  the  unfortunate  Ben 
Lee,  alone  in  a  wood  with  him.  It  was  his  business, 
however,  to  defend  the  prisoner,  and  not  to  judge  him, 
and  he  did  his  best,  fettered,  as  a  man  with  any  con- 
science must  be,  by  the  belief  that  his  cause  was  a  bad  one. 

The  great  thing,  as  Cyril  had  suggested,  was  to  prove 
an  alibi;  and  to  this  end,  Granfer,  William  Grove's  child, 
Winnie  Maitland — a  feeble  trio,  truly — and  Widow  Dove 
were  relied  upon.  The  latter,  to  Mr.  Hawkshaw's  dismay, 
had  already  been  subpoenaed  for  the  prosecution,  at  which 
Everard  smiled;  he  could  not  fear  her.  Straun,  the 
blacksmith,  who  deposed  to  having  seen  Everard  leaving 
the  village  in  the  direction  of  Swaynestone  some  time 
before  Stevens  saw  him  leave  the  Rectory  by  the  back  of 
the  churchyard,  was  further  reckoned  a  strong  ally,  but 
on  being  put  to  the  test,  he  was  fatally  positive  about  the 
gray  suit  and  the  stick,  and  broke  down  utterly  as  to  the 
time  on  cross-examination. 

Then  Alma  was  a  strong  tower  of  hope,  though  reck- 
oned among  the  witnesses  for  the  other  side;  she  would 
at  least  dissipate  the  calumny  based  upon  the  misconcep- 
tions of  Judkins  and  her  stepmother,  and  would  explain 
the  nature  of  her  meetings  with  Everard  in  the  spring, 
when  they  had  been  accustomed  to  have  long  discussions 
upon  Mrs.  Lee's  symptoms,  and  she  would  also  enlighten 
people  about  those  unfortunate  lectures  on  botany  which 
Everard  now  saw  with  remorseful  humiliation  to  have 
been  so  injudicious. 

As  the  trial  proceeded,  and  witness  after  witness 
repeated  or  enlarged  upon  the  former  evidence,  Everard 
realized  the  sensations  of  the  man  in  the  story,  the  hor- 
ror of  which  had  fascinated  his  childhood — of  the  sleeper 
in  the  ghastly  four-post  bed,  the  top  of  which  slowly 
and  remorselessly  descended  upon  him  till  it  threatened 
to  become  too  late  to  escape  from  the  narrowed  aperture, 
and  he  should  struggle  in  vain  against  his  irresistible 
doom.  - 

At  first,  in  spite  of  all  the  annoyance  and  vexatious 
notoriety  of  his  unjust  committal  and  detention,  Everard 
had  believed  that  it  must  end,  after  the  weighing  and 


194 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


sifting  of  evidence  at  the  final  trial,  in  his  acquittal:  the 
worst  he  feared  was  leaving  the  court  with  the  stains  of 
unrefuted  suspicion  upon  him :  but  as  the  trial  proceeded, 
a  terrible  conviction  that  a  miscarriage  of  justice  might 
occur  was  slowly  burned  into  his  soul. 

The  appearance  of  Widow  Dove  in  the  witness-box 
gave  him  a  faint  hope,  though,  having  been  absent  from 
home,  she  could  not  prove  his  presence  at  her  cottage; 
she  could  merely  show  the  credibility  of  his  tale.  It  was 
not  possible,  he  thought,  that  a  man,  acting  as  he  was  ac- 
cused of  doing,  would  set  up  such  a  feeble  pretence  at 
alibi  as  to  pretend  to  go  to  a  house  from  which  he  averred 
the  inmates  were  absent;  it  would  be  so  very  simple  to 
upset  this  defence  by  the  production  of  the  inmates. 

What  was  his  amazment  on  hearing  the  witness  quietl) 
depose,  "On  December  31,  I  was  at  home  all  day  witfc 
my  daughter,  who  was  in  bed  with  a  cold.  A  book- 
hawker  called  in  the  forenoon;  no  one  else  came  to  the 
cottage  till  six  in  the  evening,  when  Abraham  Wooc'i 
looked  in  on  his  way  home  from  work  to  get  a  light  foi 
his  pipe,  and  had  some  tea."  Questioned  by  Mr.  Hawk- 
shaw,  she  said  that  she  was  in  the  house  from  twelve  til'i 
six,  not  even  going  into  her  garden  all  that  time.  Hej 
cottage  had  only  two  rooms,  with  a  kind  of  shed  or  lean- 
to,  which  served  as  scullery.  Asked  at  what  hour  she 
lighted  her  candle,  she  replied  that  she  did  so  about  dusk 

The  counsel  did  not  guess  what  really  happened — thai 
the  widow,  busy  in  her  sleeping-room  with  her  daughter, 
let  the  gorse-fire  burn  out,  and,  being  short  of  fuel,  did 
not  relight  it,  bitter  cold  as  it  was,  till  she  wished  to  boil 
her  tea-kettle  after  Everard  had  left  the  dark,  fireless 
cottage,  under  the  impression  that  it  was  untenanted ;  and 
the  poor  woman's  pride  rendered  her  by  no  means  eager 
to  volunteer  this  information.  The  daughter  corrobo- 
rated her  mother's  statement,  knowing  nothing  of  the  ex- 
tinguished fire  or  her  mother's  occupation  at  the  time  of 
Everard's  visit,  that  of  cutting  gorse-stems  in  .the  shed. 
Wood,  the  laborer,  who,  beguiled  by  the  cheery  glow  of 
the  widow's  fire  on  his  evening  walk  home,  got  his  pipe- 
light  and  cup  of  tea  at  the  cottage,  gave  evidence  tha* 
the  fire  was  alight.  Mr.  Hawkshaw  thought  his  client  £'• 
fool  to  invent  such  a  lame  story.  Everard  believed  that  he 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  195 

was  under  the  influence  of  some  dreadful     nightmare, 
which  must  speedily  end. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

The  Alma  Lee  who  appeared  in  the  witness-box  was  a 
very  different  being  from  the  happy  and  innocent  girl 
who  rode  home  in  Long's  wagon  to  the  music  of  the  bells 
in  the  gray  November  evening,  unconscious  of  the  com- 
plicated meshes  of  trouble  which  the  fates  were  weaving 
obout  the  simple  strand  of  her  commonplace  lot. 

Her  experience  of  the  bitter  realities  of  life  had  added 
•a  terrible  lustre  to  her  beauty,  and  developed  her  char- 
acter in  an  unexpected  direction.  It  was  a  nature,  as 
Lilian  said,  full  of  noble  possibilities  and  strong  for  good 
or  for  evil,  and  in  its  perversion  it  resembled  some  mighty 
Ktream  turned  aside  from  its  natural  source,  and 
overflowing  its  banks  in  new  and  disastrous  ways,  bring- 
ing devastation  where  it  should  have  brought  blessing. 
The  shame  which  would  have  crushed  slenderer  and 
liweeter  natures  kindled  a  scornful  indignation  in  Alma, 
and  a  sense  of  the  cruel  disproportion  of  her  punishment 
to  her  guilt — a  guilt  which  looked  angel-faced  by  the  side 
of  a  thousand  deeper  sins  which  daily  pass  not  only  un- 
avenged but  almost  as  matters  of  course — kindled  a 
fierce  resentment  in  her.  Suffering  had  hardened  her; 
she  was  a  moral  ruin,  and  when  she  stepped  with  a  firm 
and  not  ungraceful  carriage  into  the  witness-box,  and 
looked  around  the  court  with  haughty  defiance,  every  one 
compared  her  bearing  with  that  of  the  prisoner,  and  pro- 
nounced them  a  pair  of  impenitent  evil-doers. 

Alma's  features  had  lost  their  youthful  softness  and 
indecision  of  outline ;  they  are  now  like  chiselled  marble, 
firm  and  pure  and  beautiful  in  curve.  They  had  indeed 
been  chiselled  into  shape  by  the  sharp  strokes  of  passion 
and  suffering  and  wrong — terrible  sculptors,  to  whom  the 
human  face  is  as  wax  ready  for  modelling.  The  dark, 
almond-shaped,  rather  melancholoy  eyes  now  burned  with 


IQ6  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MA1TLAND. 

the  fire  of  intense  resolution;  the  full,  rich  red  lips  were 
fuller,  but  firmer;  they  met  in  a  curve  of  sharpest  accu- 
racy, their  former  pretty  wilfullness  forgotten  with  girl- 
hood and  innocence.  Her  figure  had  expanded  into  .1 
statuesque  nobility,  and  all  rustic  awkwardness  in  her 
gestures  was  now  swallowed  up  in  the  unconscious  dignity 
of  her  tragic  fate. 

Her  appearance  created  great  surprise,  and  a  murmur 
of  involuntary  admiration  stirred  the  court  as  she  entered 
the  box  and  cast  her  defiant  glance  around.  It  was  no 
gentle,  penitent  Magdalen,  as  people  expected,  but  a 
proud,  self-reliant  woman,  magnificent  even  in  ruin. 
The  girl  in  the  wagon  said  her  prayers  daily,  hoped  for 
heaven,  and  would  by  no  means  have  told  a  lie:  so  she 
thought,  for  she  had  never  endured  temptation,  and  had 
never  needed  to  practice  self-restraint  in  her  easy,  simple 
life,  though  she  knew  self-denial,  but  it  was  the  self-de- 
nial of  impulse,  not  principle.  The  woman  in  the  wit- 
ness-box still  prayed — she  had  prayed  for  the  death  of 
her  unborn  child — but  she  no  longer  hoped  for  heaven. 
She  knew  that  it  is  not  for  such  as  love  man  more  than 
God,  and  renounce  it  at  the  bidding  of  another,  and  yet 
she  did  not  repent;  she  knew  that  her  brief  season  of 
evil-doing  was  the  sweetest  in  her  life,  sweeter  far  than 
any  hopes  of  heaven  had  ever  been;  she  regretted  only 
that  it  was  past  forever.  She  was  now  an  outcast  from 
heaven  above  and  from  the  world  below,  and  lies  were  of 
little  consequence  to  her. 

As  she  stood  in  the  witness-box,  one  voice  rang  in  her 
ears  and  through  her  heart  with  these  words  of  terror: 
"Oh,  Alma,  save  me,  save  me !  You  know  I  never  meant 
it!"  It  was  almost  the  last  voice  she  heard  before 
the  terrible  darkness  that  came  upon  her  when  she  felt 
that  her  hour  was  come,  and  there  was  no  one  to  pity  her. 
When  at  last  the  darkness  cleared  and  her  reason 
returned,  that  voice  rang  piercingly  through  all  the  cham- 
bers of  her  brain,  awakening  all  the  bitter  misery  of  the 
past  months  with  the  added  tragedy  of  that  fatal  night, 
and  making  her  wish  she  had  never  been  born. 

But  nature,  so  inexorably  just  in  exacting  debts  is 
equally  just  in  paying  them,  and  had  in  reserve  an 
unsuspected  store  of  wealth  for  the  unfortunate  girl. 


THE  SILEXCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

When  she  saw  the  beautiful  child  for  whose  death  she 
had  prayed,  a  fresh  spring  opened  within  her,  and  she 
rejoiced  over  him  with  the  strong  passion  of  her  nature. 
Once  more  she  had  something  to  love  and  live  for,  to  de- 
vote herself  to  body  and  soul,  something  entirely  her  own, 
all  the  more  her  own  that  he  was  scorned  and  rejected 
by  others.  Her  joy  in  this  innocent  creature  restored 
her  to  health  of  mind  and  body,  and  deepened  her  old, 
never-dying  love  for  the  man  who  had  long  ceased  to  love 
her — the  man  whose  imploring  cry,  "Oh,  Alma,  save  me, 
save  me!"  always  rang  in  her  heart. 

Mr.  Braxton,  the  counsel  for  the  prosecution,  handled 
this  his  favorite  witness  with  the  utmost  delicacy  of  his 
art.  To  have  her  sworn,  and  say,  "I  am  Alma  Lee,  etc.; 
the  deceased,  Benjamin  Lee,  was  my  father.  I  last  saw 
him  alive  on  the  afternoon  of  December  31,"  was  simple 
enough;  but  the  difficulty  was  to  get  anything  more  from 
her.  It  was  between  four  and  five  o'clock,  she  said,  under 
the  dexterous  handling  of  Mr.  Braxton — a  handling 
fiercely  criticised  by  Mr.  Hawkshaw,  and  often  provoking 
a  battle-royal  between  the  counsel,  and  obliging  Mr. 
Justice  Manby  more  than  once  to  cast  his  truncheon  into 
the  arena  as  a  signal  to  cease  fighting.  .She  was  in  the 
wood  known  as  Temple  Copse  with  a  friend.  That  friend, 
she  admitted  reluctantly  at  length,  was  her  child's  father; 
his  name  could  in  no  wise  be  extracted  from  her. 

"Were  you  in  the  wood  by  appointment?"  from  Mr. 
Braxton. 

"Yes." 

"Did  the  torn  letter  produced  refer  to  the  appoint- 
ment?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  it  written  by  the  prisoner?" 

Furious  onslaught  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Hawkshaw,  inter- 
position of  Mr.  Justice  Manby,  and  repetition  of  the  ques- 
tion in  a  different  form. 

"By  whom  was  the  letter  produced  written?" 

Silence  on  the  part  of  witness.  "At  last,  after  delicate 
manipulation  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Braxton,  "It  was  written 
by  the  person  I  met  in  the  wood." 

Sensation  in  court, 'which  was  crowded,  and  included  a 
few  ladies  of  lovely  feature  and  rich  attire. 


ig8  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAJTLAND. 

Alma  continued,  amid  a  repetition  of  skirmishes  be- 
tween the  two  counsel,  and  many  rebellions  against  Mr. 
Braxton  on  her  own  part,  to  give  the1  following  evidence. 
She  had  been  standing  on  the  spot  where  her  father  subse- 
quently fell  for  some  minutes  with  the  mysterious  friend, 
who  was  dressed  in  the  fatal  gray  suit,  and  carried  the 
stick  produced  in  court.  He  offered  her  money  for  her 
child's  support — a  bag  of  gold.  This  she  had  refused 
many  times,  when  her  father  appeared  suddenly. 

He  carried  a  stick — a  rough  and  heavy  staff,  fresh  cut 
trom  the  hedge — was  angry  and  excited,  dashed  the  bag  of 
gold  to  the  ground,  stamped  on  it,  and  began  upbraiding 
the  young  man.  He  ordered  his  daughter  to  leave  them 
and  she  did  so.  She  waited  outside  the  copse,  listening, 
and  fearful  that  something  would  happen.  She  heard 
voices  indistinct,  and  at  last  sounds  like  men  struggling. 
She  turned  faint,  and  when  she  recovered  a  little  there 
was  silence. 

She  was  returning  to  the  wood,  when  a  figure  rushed 
toward  her,  bleeding  in  the  face,  the  gray  suit  torn  and 
stained,  and  covered  with  brambles  and  dead  leaves.He 
said — here  the  witness  broke  down,  and  wept  so  bitterly 
that  she  could  not  speak  for  some  time — he  said  that  he 
had  killed  her  father  by  an  accidental  blow  that  he  had 
given  in  defending  himself;  that  Lee  had  assaulted  him 
with  great  violence,  of  which  he  bore  the  mark;  and  at 
last  he  entreated  her  to  save  him.  "I  promised  that  I 
would  never  betray  him,"  said  Alma,  with  calm  simplicity, 
as  she  drew  her  black  drapery  around  her,  "and  I  never 
will."  She  related  further  that  she  bid  him  leave  the 
spot  quickly,  before  her  mother  returned  from  Malbourne 
and  met  him,  and  that  he  did  so;  and  that  she  herself 
regained  her  home  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  went  to 
bed,  being  very  ill,  and  knew  and  heard  nothing  of  the 
search  for  and  recovery  of  her  father's  body  until  her 
partial  recovery  weeks  later. 

The  evidence  of  Judkins  was  fuller  than  that  he  gave 
at  Oldport.  He  deposed  to  seeing  Alma  enter  the  wood 
shortly  before  Everard  entered  it  from  the  opposite  direc- 
tion. Ingram  Swaynestone  also  witnessed  to  seeing  her, 
or  rather  a  female  form  which  he  supposed  to  be  hers, 
among  the  hazels  which  bordered  the  copse,  as  he  rode 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


199 


up  the  meadow  before  he  met  the  gray-suited  figure. 
Swaynestone  had  also  seen  the  two  together  in  the 
spring,  knew  that  Everard  visited  Mrs.  Lee  twice  a  day, 
and  had  seen  Alma  accompany  him  on  his  homeward  way 
some  distance,  in  earnest  conversation  with  him.  Jud- 
kins,  in  describing  these  meetings,  said,  in  the  witness- 
box,  "they  walked  slow  and  strolling,  like  people  who 
keep  company." 

All  this  Alma  admitted.  Dr.  Everard  made  her  accom- 
pany him  through  a  field  or  two  sometimes,  she  said, 
that  she  might  have  fresh  air,  which,  he  said,  she 
needed.  He  used  to  give  her  directions  about  her 
mother,  and  receive  her  account  of  her  symptoms;  he 
used  also  to  ask  her  about  plants,  explain  them  to  her, 
and  ask  her  to  procure  him  specimens.  They  could  not 
say  much  respecting  her  symptoms  before  the  woman 
who  helped  to  nurse  Mrs.  Lee,  because  she  was  indis- 
creet, and  told  all  to  the  patient.  Dr.  Everard  had  given 
her  a  book  or  some  trifle  every  Christmas  since  she  was 
six  or  seven  years  old. 

Alma  was  told  of  the  peril  of  concealing  a  felony,  she 
was  threatened  with  committal  for  contempt,  she  was 
informed  that  she  became  an  accessory  to  her  father's 
death  after  the  fact  if  she  continued  to  conceal  the  name 
of  the  murderer;  but  she  was  stubborn,  trembling  and 
turning  pale  at  the  words  "accessory  after  the  fact." 
She  was  further  told  that  her  oath  required  her  not  only 
to  say  whether  or  no  the  prisoner  was  the  man  who  dealt 
the  fatal  blow,  but  to  reveal  the  name  of  the  actual  mur- 
derer, supposing  the  accused  to  be  innocent. 

Alma  trembled  more  and  more  as  her  examination  pro- 
ceeded; the  heavy  air  made  her  giddy  and  faint,  and  the 
unaccustomed  excitement  and  agitation  of  her  terrible 
position  confused  her  faculties.  To  the  question,  "Had 
the  prisoner,  on  leaving  the  wood,  the  stick  produced  in 
his  hand?"  she  replied,  "No;  he  was  wringing  his 
hands,"  and  she  made  similar  slips;  and  finally,  to  the 
question,  "Is  the  man  who  met  you  in  the  copse  the  pris- 
oner in  the  dock,  or  some  other  man?"  she  replied  with  a 
sob  and  a  shudder,  in  words  that  thrilled  every  ear  in  the 
building,  "It  is  the  prisoner." 


200  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

When  Everard  heard  these  fatal  words  he  trembled  so 
that  he  seemed  about  to  fall ;  the  sweat  of  agony  stood  on 
his  brow  and  dabbled  the  short,  curly  brown  hair  that 
he  had  pushed  over  it  in  the  growing  agitation  of  Alma's 
evidence;  and  the  eyes  with  which  he  gazed  upon  the 
pale  and  shuddering  witness  had  a  dazed  and  filmy  look. 
In  one  moment  the  real  truth  flashed  upon  him,  illumi- 
nated by  the  lighting  of  Alma's  passionate  glances,  and 
the  whole  history  arranged  itself  dramatically  before  him 
in  its  minutest  details  with  a  vivid  distinctness  that  never 
more  left  him. 

Glimpses  of  truth  more  bitter  than  death  to  believe  had 
come  upon  him  many  a  time  before,  only  to  be  driven 
away  by  the  scornful  incredulity  of  a  loyal  and  generous 
nature.  As  the  evidence  developed  before  him,  these 
glimpses  became  more  frequent  and  more  difficult  to 
combat,  though  the  hateful  suspicions  were  never  dwelt 
upon;  but  now,  in  that  moment  of  vivid,  heart-piercing 
revelation,  every  little  suspicious  circumstance,  unnoticed 
at  the  time,  rose  up  with  magic  swiftness,  and  fitted  into 
its  natural  place  in  one  long  unbroken  chain  of  perfectly 
sequent,  convincing  evidence.  Words,  gestures,  accents, 
once  regarded  in  such  different  lights,  now  showed  clear 
in  one  lurid  flame ;  widely  floating  reminiscences,  con- 
jectures, hypotheses  rushed  together  in  a  coherent  whole, 
and  an  awful  sense  of  the  mystery  of  human  iniquity 
caused  Everard's  soul  to  swoon  within  him.  A  faint  groan 
escaped  him,  audible,  low  as  it  was,  in  the  startled,  mo- 
mentary silence  of  the  court. 

"There  is  no  God,"  he  said  within  himself;  "there  is 
no  good;  no  help  anywhere." 

After  this,  the  trial,  which  was  virtually  at  an  end, 
seemed  to  have  no  further  interest  for  him.  He  stood  in 
his  dreadful  place  like  one  crucified,  and  listened  abstract- 
edly to  the  further  proceedings — Alma's  cross-examina- 
tion, Mr.  Braxton's  triumphant,  "That,  my  lord,  closes 
the  evidence  for  the  prosecution,"  Mr.  Hawkshaw's 
labored  and  lame  address,  the  few  and  feeble  witnesses 
for  the  defence  and  the  judge's  able  and  comprehensive 
summing-up — with  a  listless  face  and  a  soul  full  of 
darkness. 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  2OI 

Cyril  was  not  in  court  when  Alma's  examination  was 
thus  concluded.  He  had  listened  to  part  of  it  on  the 
previous  day,  and  then  rushed  away,  unable  to  bear  it. 
On  this  morning  he  had  felt  unequal  to  hearing  more, 
and  a  friend,  seeing  his  condition  of  mental  unrest,  had 
recommended  him  to  try  a  brisk  walk,  promising  to  tell 
him  what  passed  whenever  he  should  return  to  the  vicin- 
ity of  the  court.  Cyril  wandered  restlessly  about,  more 
haggard  and  feverish  than  ever,  trying  to  brace  himself 
to  the  performance  of  his  obvious  and  long-neglected 
duty,  and  yet  with  the  unreason  of  weak  and  sanguine 
temperaments,  hoping  against  hope  that  something  might 
still  turn  up  to  absolve  him  from  the  necessity  before 
which  every  fibre  of  his  being  shuddered  in  mortal  an- 
guish. 

The  old-fashioned  streets  seemed  to  him  like  the  archi- 
tecture of  dreams,  and  the  figures  hurrying  to  and  fro 
had  no  more  reality  for  him  than  the  flitting  phantoms  of 
a  nightmare.  The  blood  throbbed  in  his  temples  like  the 
piston  of  a  steam-engine;  he  wondered  how  his  brain  had 
borne  its  dreadful  pressure  so  long.  He  wandered  into 
the  sweet,  sunny  stillness  of  the  close,  and  strove  to  calm 
himself  by  the  peaceful  suggestions  and  hallowed  associa- 
tions of  the  semi-monastic  spot.  The  voices  ot  children 
at  play  came  hamoniously  over  the  wall  of  the  canons' 
gardens;  some  quietly  dressed  ladies  went  by;  the  dean 
issued  from  beneath  the  lovely  pointed  arches  which 
formed  a  porch  to  the  Deanery,  and  walked  with  a  dig- 
nified quiet,  free  from  loitering,  across  the  sunshiny 
grass.  Cyril  looked  wistfully  at  his  bland,  wholesome, 
yet  delicate  face,  and  remarked  to  himself  on  the  pecul- 
iarly English  combination  of  piety  and  aristocracy  which 
is  the  special  note  of  the  higher  ranks  of  Anglican  clergy, 
and  wondered  whether  piety  or  aristocracy  were  the  larger 
ingredient  in  the  mixture  so  pleasing  to  some  minds. 
Years  afterward  he  recalled  these  idle  reflections,  as  peo- 
ple recall  the  trifles  which  belong  to  the  critical  moments 
of  life  and  became  stamped  upon  the  memory  along  with 
the  crises  themselves.  The  rooks  were  busy  in  the  great 
leafless  elms,  sailing  across  the  blue  sky  or  clustering 
about  the  boughs  with  a  confused,  reiterated  cawing, 


202  TBE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

which  recalled  the  downs  of  home  and  the  white  peace  of 
boyhood. 

The  massive  cathedral  looked  solemnly  peaceful  in  the 
bright,  cold,  spring  sunshine,  which  made  the  flying 
buttresses  and  other  salient  points  cast  sharply  cut 
shadows  on  its  gray  surface  It  seemed  to  offer  peace  to 
Cyril's  distracted  soul,  and  he  left  the  sunshine  and 
entered  the  vast  building,  soothed  for  a  moment  by  its 
shadowy  echoing  stillness.  Some  idea  of  betaking  him- 
self to  prayer  possessed  him,  but  he  could  not  collect  his 
thoughts,  and  he  rose  from  his  knees  and  paced  the  echo- 
ing aisles,  looking  up,  as  if  for  help,  into  the  deep  shadow 
of  the  arched  roof.  Some  organ  notes  soon  soared  thither 
— a  brief  prelude;  then  Mendelssohn's  air,  "If  with  all 
your  heart  ye  truly  seek  Me."  His  fancy  supplied  the 
mellow  pathos  of  a  tenor  voice  to  the  lovely  melody,  and 
he  stood  beneath  the  solid  arches  of  the  great  Norman 
transept,  wistful  and  hushed  for  a  moment. 

"Oh,  that  I  knew  where  I  might  find  Him!"  he 
echoed. 

The  air  died  away,  and,  after  a  brief  pause,  one  of 
Bach's  magnificent  fugues  was  thundered  forth  in  com- 
plex, ever-increasing  majesty,  till  it  seemed  charged  with 
the  agony  and  passion  and  exultation  of  some  great  war 
of  young  and  mighty  nations,  full  of  the  "confused  noise 
and  garments  rolled  in  blood,"  which  belong  to  the  war- 
rior's battle.  The  tumult  echoed  through  all  the  recesses 
of  Cyril's  being;  it  gave  an  outlet  to  the  stormy  agitation 
within  him.  He  surrendered  himself  to  the  full  power  of 
the  mighty  harmony  glad  to  lose  himself,  if  but  for  a 
moment.  But  the  conflict  of  the  contrapuntal  parts  har^ 
monized  too  well  with  the  conflict  in  his  soul;  it  was  no 
longer  a  battle  of  the  warrior,  but  a  strife  of  powers  celes- 
tial and  infernal. 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hand,  leaning  against  a 
pillar,  and  seemed  to  see  countless  legions  of  warring 
angels  flash  in  glittering  cohorts  over  the  universe,  and 
then  to  hear  the  crash  of  the  counter-charge  of  the 
dusky  armies  of  hell.  Now  the  bright-armored  squad- 
rons are  driven  back,  and  Cyril's  heart  shakes  within 
him.  Is  hell  stronger  than  heaven?  Shall  wrong  con- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLA.ND. 


203 


quer  right?  Michael,  the  prince  himself,  is  driven  back, 
and  the  fiend,  with  the  face  of  marred  but  never  forgotten 
glory,  is  triumphant.  But  no;  the  adamantine  swords 
flash  out  again,  the  dazzling  wings  cleave  the  blue  ether, 
and  the  vast  squadrons  of  dusky  horror  are  driven  back — • 
back  into  endless  abysses  of  chaotic  night. 

The  angel  trumpets  peal  out  in  heart-stirring  triumph, 
the  music  ceases,  and  Cyril  is  left  alone,  his  cheek 
pressed  against  the  chill,  rough  stone,  and  hot  tears  rush- 
ing down  his  face.  Was  the  angel  combat  for  a  human 
soul?  or  was  all  that  tumult  of  war  only  the  strife  within 
one  narrow  human  breast?  In  that  case  he  felt  he 
was  undone — his  will  was  too  weak;  evil  was  too  strong 
for  him.  He  could  find  no  peace,  even  in  that  holy 
place.  He  turned  and  paced  rapidly  down  the  long  nave, 
and  offered  to  a  stray  sightseer,  in  his  abstraction,  the 
striking  spectacle  of  an  ascetic-looking  young  clergyman 
wearing  his  hat  in  a  cathedral. 

"Young  man,"  said  the  stranger,  solemnly  accosting 
him,  "are  you  aware  that  this  building  is  consecrated  ??? 

Cyril  flushed,  and  tore  off  his  hat,  murmuring  some 
words  of  explanation.  Then  he  rushed  out  into  the  sun- 
shine, where  he  met  his  friend,  evidently  big  with  tid- 
ings. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  his  lips  growing  dry  with  apprehen- 
sion. 

"Well,  Maitland,  I  am  afraid  it  is  all  up  with  the  poor 
fellow.  There  is  no  doubt  now ;  Alma  Lee  has  confessed 
all. 

"All?"  asked  Cyril  steadying  himself  against  the  stone 
lintel  of  the  side  door. 

"Yes.  She  was  outside  the  copse.  She  heard  a  strug- 
gle ;  Everard  rushed  out,  covered  with  blood,  and  said  he 
had  accidentally  struck  the  fatal  blow  in  self-defence,  and 
implored  her  to  save  him." 

•  Everard?  Did  she  swear  that  Everard  did  it?"  asked 
Cyril,  in  a  strained,  unmusical  voice. 

"Yes ;  she  swore  to  him  at  last.  Not  that  any  one  ever 
had  the  slightest  doubt  Poor  fellow!  he  should  have 
pleaded  guilty.  After  all,  what  is  accidental  homicide  in 
self-defence?" 


204  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

"What,  indeed!"  returned  Cyril,  in  the  same  strange 
voice,  with  an  unusual  look  in  his  face. 

He  was  silent  for  awhile,  and  his  friend  said  nothing, 
sympathizing  with  his  trouble.  Then  he  pulled  himself 
from  the  lintel  with  an  effort,  and  walked  quickly  away. 

"I  must  go  to  the  court  at  once,"  he  said,  with  quiet 
determination. 

"I  would  stay  away,  if  I  were  you,"  said  the  friend 
accompanying  him  nevertheless.  "After  all,"  he  added, 
with  blundering  attempts  at  consolation,  "the  poor  fel- 
low had  not  been  to  blame.  As  for  that  entanglement, 
Maitland,  you  must  not  judge  it  from  a  clerical  point  of 
view.  The  world  smiles  on  these  youthful  follies.  As  a 
medical  man  in  practice,  it  would  have  gone  against  him; 
but  then,  he  is  not  yet  in  practice,  and  every  one  knows 
that  young  blood  is  not  iced.  His  blunder  was  in  deny- 
ing it  If  he  had  but  pleaded  guilty,  Manby  would 
have  let  him  down  easily  enough.  Such  a  magnificent 
girl,  too!  Few  men  but  Braxton  would  have  dragged  it 
out  of  her.  She  looked  like  death  when  she  said  it. 
You  see,  she  had  sworn  to  shield  him.  Fancy  letting 
that  out  in  the  witness-box  i" 

"You  see,"  interrupted  Cyril,  suddenly — for  this  kind 
of  talk  was  more  than  he  could  bear — "I  am  a  clergyman 
and  must  look  at  these  things  from  a  clerical  point  of 
view." 

Cyril's  very  slight  evidence  had  not  been  of  sufficient 
importance  to  be  repeated  at  the  trial;  Lilian's  was,  how- 
ever, deemed  important  from  its  very  feebleness  and  the 
evident  reluctance  with  which  she  gave  it.  Mr.  Braxton 
was  so  very  sarcastic  about  her  reasons  for  disbelieving 
the  evidence  of  her  senses,  that  even  Mr.  Justice  Manby, 
who  was  human,  and  touched  by  Lilian's  gentle  and  sor- 
rowful dignity — not  to  speak  of  her  youth  and  beauty — 
threw  the  aegis  of  his  office  over  her,  and  pronounced  Mr. 
Braxton's  observations  to  be  irrevalent. 

The  other  witnesses  merely  repeated  what  has  already 
been  recorded,  though  with  more  detail,  and  all  stood 
cross-examination  well.  Mr.  Hawkshaw's  endeavors  to 
show  that  Judkin's  suspicions  of  Everard  were  but  the 
forgeries  of  jealousy,  served  only  to  fasten  the  imputation 


I'BE  SILENCE  OF  DEAft   MAITLAND.  205 

more  deeply  upon  the  accused.  The  feigned  handwriting 
was  pronounced  by  experts  to  be  that  of  Everard's;  they 
relied  greatly  upon  the  formation  of  a  capital  T,  which 
was  made  in  the  French  manner.  Everard  smiled 
mournfully  when  he  heard  this.  He  thought  of  the  far- 
off  school-time  when  he  and  the  twins  had  been  first 
puzzled  and  then  enchanted  by  their  French  teacher's 
T's;  he  thought  of  one  wet  afternoon,  when  they  got  a 
gridiron  and  heated  it  red-hot,  and  had  a  mock-masonic 
initiation,  of  which  the  house-dog,  Rover — swathed  in  a 
dressing-gown,  and  occasionally  uttering  whines  of  re- 
monstrance— was  Grand  Master;  and  how  they  vowed 
absurd  vows,  one  of  which  was  to  be  ever  faithful  to  the 
persecuted  French  T.  He  recalled  a  solemn  discussion  at 
the  end  of  the  initiation  as  to  the  amount  of  guilt  which 
would  be  incurred  by  either  of  the  twins  in  breaking 
their  vows.  Cyril  argued  that  neither  of  them  could 
singly  commit  more  than  half  a  crime ;  and  Henry  replied 
that  in  that  case  neither  ought  singly  to  eat  more  than 
half  a  dinner.  All  this  happy  and  guileless  fooling  en- 
acted itself  again  in  Everard's  memory  while  his  fate  was 
being  decided  in  the  serious  strife  of  the  barristers,  who 
pleaded  for  and  against  his  innocence,  and  made  him  feel, 
like  Francesca  de  Rimini  in  hell,  that  "there  is  no  greater 
pain  than  remembering  happy  times  in  misery." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Every  one  felt  the  defence  to  be  a  mere  farce,  insuffi- 
cient to  kindle  interest,  much  less  hope,  ^even  in  the  pris- 
oner. Little  Rosalia  Grove,  the  child  who  saw  and  spoke 
with  Everard  at  Long's  farm  between  five  and  six  on  the 
evening  of  the  3ist,  was  but  five  years  old,  and,  on  being 
produced  in  the  town  hall  at  Oldport,  did  nothing  but 
weep  bitterly  and  cling  to  her  father  for  comfort.  His 
caresses  and  remonstrances  failed  to  extract  anything 
from  her.  He  could  only  depose  that  she  had  shown  him 
a  penny  just  given  her  by  "a  man,"  when  he  came  in  to 


2o6  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

tea  at  six;  that  she  said  that  the'  man  wanted  Dr.  Ever- 
ard's  parcel,  which  she  had  seen  her  mother  take  to  the 
Rectory. 

The  appearance  of  Winnie  Maitland's  golden  curls  in 
the  witness-box  touched  people  and  kindled  deep  indigna- 
tion in  the  breasts  of  both  judge  and  jury,  who  thought 
the  child  had  been  practised  upon.  Her  first  perform- 
ance was  to  cry  with  fright,  though  she  stated  her  name 
and  age  distinctly,  and  took  her  oath  properly.  She  un- 
derstood the  nature  of  an  oath,  she  said;  her  sister  Lilian 
had  explained  it  to  her,  and  enjoined  her  to  be  very  care- 
ful in  what  she  said.  On  being  asked  what  she  sup- 
posed would  be  the  consequence  of  her  swearing  careless- 
ly, she  replied  that  "Henry  would  be  hanged/'  an  idea  she 
had  imbibed  from  Lennie,  during  many  anxious  consulta- 
tions with  him. 

She  did  not  know  exactly  at  what  time  Everard  re- 
turned to  the  Rectory;  it  was  "about  tea-time."  She  did 
not  know  what  clothes  he  wore ;  he  was  in  a  great  hurry 
to  go  upstairs,  to  get  ready  for  dinner.  She  told  him 
there  was  no  hurry,  as  it  was  long  before  dinner-time; 
but  he  replied  that  he  was  not  fit  to  go  into  the  drawing- 
room.  Cross-examined,  she  said  he  was  "in  a  dreadful 
mess,"  words  used  by  Everard.  She  pleaded  for  "just 
one  toss,"  and  he  threw  her  up  in  the  air  and  caught  her 
several  times.  She  did  not  remember  striking  him,  or 
coming  in  contact  with  him.  The  hall  in  which  the 
playing  took  place  was  not  well  lighted. 

All  of  a  sudden  he  sat  her  down,  and  said,  "You  have 
done  it  now;  blinded  me."  She  cried,  and  made  him 
promise  not  to  tell;  she  was  always  getting  into  trouble 
for  rough  play.  He  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  came  out 
again  with  raw  beef.  She  followed  him  to  his  room,  and 
he  showed  her  spme  flowers,  and  told  her  to  take  them  to 
her  sister,  and  "not  to  come  bothering  him  any  more."/ 
She  was  trying  so  hard  to  play  gently,  and  she  did  not 
know  she  touched  him.  His  eye  was  very  bad,  but  he 
did  all  he  could  to  hide  it,  and  said  at  dinner  that  he  had 
knocked  it  against  something. 

Granfer,  who  entered  the  witness-box  with  a  vague 
notion  that  his  conversational  powers  had  at  last  a  worthy 
sphere,  repeated  what  he  had  said  at  Oldport  with  the 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  207 

same  circumlocution  and  affectation  of  stupidity,  and  par- 
ried Mr.  Braxton's  questions,  and  dealt  him  cutting  re- 
joinders, with  an  apparent  absence  of  malice  that  drove 
the  court  into  ecstacies  of  mirth. 

Mr.  Maitland  and  others  bore  witness  to  Everard's 
good  reputation,  and  also  to  the  frankness  with  which  he 
spoke  of  his  visits  to  Mrs.  Lee  in  the  spring — a  circum- 
stance which  the  counsel  for  the  defence  maintained  to  be 
incompatible  with  Judkins'  suspicions  as  to  the  purpose  of 
those  visits. 

After  listening  to  Mr.  Hawkshaw's  labored,  impas- 
sioned, but  totally  illogical  speech  for  the  defence,  no 
creature  in  the  court  had  the  faintest  hope  for  the  pris- 
oner; the  only  question  now  was  the  sentence.  Yet  there 
was  one  who  dared  to  rely  upon  the  summing-up,  and 
hope  that  Mr.  Justice  Manby  would  discover  some  tech- 
nical flaw  which  might  afford  a  loop-hole  for  escape.  This 
person  was  Cyril  Maitland,  who  had  set  out  from  the 
cathedral  with  such  intense  determination,  but  whose 
courage  had  failed  him  at  the  first  sight  of  the.judge  and 
that  terrible  array  of  human  faces,  which,  to  his  excited 
imagination,  seemed  eager,  with  a  wolfish  hunger,  for  the 
shame  and  misery  of  a  fellow-creature.  There  stood  his 
friend,  pilloried  before  him,  the  prey  of  those  hungry 
glances.  CyriFs  heart  bled  for  him,  but  he  felt  that  he 
could  never  stand  there  in  his  place.  That  Everard's  head 
was  bowed  and  his  eyes  cast  down  beneath  that  tempest 
of  shame  was  only  natural ;  who  could  stand  before  it? 

The  judge's  summing-up  was  brief,  terse,  and  convinc- 
ing. He  had  merely  to  recapitulate  the  clear  and  undis- 
puted evidence — the  plea  of  alibi  was  contradicted  by 
Widow  Dove's  evidence;  the  argument  that  the  prisoner 
was  not  the  man  whom  so  many  witnesses  had  seen 
returning  to  the  Rectory  at  five,  but  that  he  was  at  that 
moment  speaking  to  Granfer  at  the  wheelwright's  corner, 
was  quickly  set  aside;  the  evidence  of  the  aged  semi- 
imbecile  creature  was  scarcely  to  be  relied  on  against  that 
of  so  many  competent  witnesses,  including  the  one  who 
had  given  evidence  with  such  reluctance;  the  attempt 
to  turn  the  innocence  of  two  young  children  to  his  own 
purposes  was  spoken  of  in  scathing  terms ;  the  prisoner's 
nervous  and  excited  behavior  on  the  evening  of  the 


3o8  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

occurrence  and  his  garbled  account  of  his  injury  and 
strenuous  attempts  to  conceal  it  were  pointed  out;  the 
jury  were  finally  exhorted  to  concentrate  their  minds 
upon  the  question  whether  the  prisoner  did  or  did  not 
kill  Benjamin  Lee,  regardless  of  all  other  considerations, 
and  to  allow  no  thoughts  of  his  previous  unblemished 
reputation  or  tenderness  for  his  rank  and  prospects  to 
interfere  with  their  judgment  They  were  to  consider, 
the  judge  said,  that  although  the  consequences  of  such  a 
crime  were  undoubtedly  tenfold  more  terrible  to  one  in 
the  prisoner's  station  than  to  an  uneducated  man,  yet  the 
guilt  of  one  with  such  advantages  was  tenfold  greater. 

When  Mr.  Hawkshaw  heard  this,  he  knew  that  not  only 
would  the  jury  return  a  verdict  against  his  client,  but  that 
the  judge  would  give  him  a  severe  sentence.  Yet  Cyril 
hoped ;  he  remembered  that  there  were  twelve  men  in  the 
jury. 

But  he  did  not  wait  long;  a  few  seconds  brought  the 
unanimous  verdict.  Guilty  of  manslaughter — a  verdict 
hailed  by  a  quickly  stifled  murmur  of  approval  from  the 
crowded  court. 

Like  a  man  suddenly  stabbed,  Cyril  sprang  to  his  feet, 
throwing  up  his  arms  as  men  only  do  in  uncontrollable 
agony,  and  addressed  some  wild  words  to  the  judge. 
"Stop!"  he  cried;  "I  have  evidence — important  evidence. 
The  prisoner  is  innocent!" 

Mr.  Justice  Manby,  who  heard  merely  a  confused  out- 
cry, ordered  Cyril's  removal;  Mr.  Maitland,  thinking  his 
son  distracted,  pulled  him  down  and  strove  to  quiet  him ; 
there  was  an  attempt  to  remove  him,  which  was  met  by 
promises  of  good  behavior  on  the  part  of  those  around 
him;  and,  quiet  having  been  procured,  the  judge  pro- 
ceeded to  give  sentence  in  the  usual  form,  but  with  some 
amplification. 

"Henry  Oswald  Everard,  you  have  been  found  guilty," 
he  said,"  of  a  very  cruel  and  pitiless  crime;  whether  it 
was  a  murder  committed  by  deliberate  and  malicious 
intention  or  merely  a  homicide  done  in  the  heat  of  anger 
after  considerable  provocation  is  known  only  to  yourself 
and  your  Maker.  By  the  laws  of  your  country  you  have 
been  convicted  of  the  lesser  crime,  and  it  is  my  painful 
duty  to  sentence  you  for  that  crime."  He  went  on  to  say 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLA.ND.  209 

how  very  painful  he  found  that  duty,  and  to  expatiate 
upon  the  prisoners  advantages,  the  pious  and  refined 
home  in  which  he  was  brought  up,  his  liberal  education, 
the  power  which  his  scientific  knowledge  gave  him,  the 
advantages  derived  from  his  father's  honorable  name  and 
social  standing,  the  manner  in  which  he  was  trusted  and 
admitted,  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing,  to  the  poor  man's 
home.  He  spoke  of  the  dead  man's  integrity,  the  respect 
in  which  he  was  held  by  all  who  knew  him;  of  his  only 
child's  fair  fame  and  defenceless  condition,  ajid  pointed 
out  the  great  wickedness  and  cruel  meanness  of  the  pris- 
oner's conduct  with  regard  to  her,  and  dwelt  much  upon 
the  father's  grief  and  just  anger.  He  spoke  also  of  the 
prisoner's  physical  advantages,  his  young  manhood  and 
muscular  strength,  and  contrasted  these  with  Lee's  com- 
parative age  and  stiffness;  he  alluded  to  the  murderous 
character  of  the  stick  which  dealt  the  fatal  blow,  and  to 
the  prisoner's  anatomical  knowledge  which  taught  him 
how  to  deal  it.  Those  who  knew  Mr.  Justice  Manby  had 
seen  him  come  down  hard  upon  prisoners  before,  but  they 
had  never  known  him  so  hard.  He  had  once  given  a 
wife-killer,  a  man  who  had  put  the  climax  to  years  of 
cruel  torture  by  stamping  a  little  too  hard  on  his  slave 
and  killing  her,  five  years,  and  people  had  been  aghast; 
precisely  similar  cases  in  other  parts  of  the  country  had 
got  six  weeks  or  a  twelvemonth,  or  even  two  years.  But 
recently  the  papers  had  been  sarcastic  upon  the  wife- 
beaters'  short  sentences  and  upon  a  prevailing  tone  of 
Victor  Hugo  sentimentality  toward  criminals,  and  Mr. 
Justice  Manby  had  felt  the  righteousness  of  their  strict- 
ures, and  remembered  them  in  dealing  with  Everard.  "I 
shall  therefore  give  you,"  he  concluded,  "the  severest 
sentence  which  the  law  allows — twenty  years'  penal  servi- 
tude." 

The  sentence  fell  upon.  Everard  like  a  blow;  He  stag- 
gered under  it,  swerved  aside,  and  clutched  at  the  wood- 
work of  the  dock  to  steady  himself,  while  hot  drops 
sprang  upon  his  brow.  At  the  same  instant,  as  if  under 
the  same  blow,  a  cry  rang  through  the  court,  and  a  man 
fell  down  senseless.  It  was  Cyril  Maitland. 

Everard  lifted  his  head  at  the  cry,  and  saw  what  hap- 
pened, scarcely  heeding  it  in  his  agony;  he  saw  Lilian, 


2io  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

marble  pale,  but  quiet,  catch  her  brother  in  her  arms, 
and  that  touched  him  with  an  ineffable  pity  for  her 
through  his  desperate  anguish.  He  scarcely  heard  the 
question  if  he  had  anything  to  say  against  his  sentence, 
but,  on  being  aroused,  replied  in  a  dazed  way,  "I  am  not 
guilty,  my  Lord.'' 

Then  he  was  taken  from  his  pedestal  of  shame,  and 
led  away  into  the  terrible  darkness  of  twenty  yea"rs' 
ignominy  and  hopeless  suffering,  bereft  at  one  stroke  of 
everything,  name,  fame,  fortune  (for  in  those  days  a 
felon's  property  was  forfeited),  love,  liberty  and  hope. 

In  a  moment  he  saw  his  life  as  it  was  but  yesterday, 
before  Fate  wove  its  dreadful  mesh  round  him,  a  life  of 
honorable  and  useful  toil,  full  of  noble  ambition,  beauti- 
ful enthusiasm,  and  honest  striving;  rich  with  the  promise 
of  love  and  domestic  peace;  happy  with  friendship  and 
family  affection;  adorned  with  culture  and  scientific  re- 
search ;  and  rich,  above  all,  with  trust  in  human  goodness 
and  divine  mercy.  He  was  now  bereft  of  all,  even  of  his 
faith.  God,  if  there  were  a  God,  had  forsaken  him ;  man 
had  betrayed  and  deserted  him.  The  remembrance  of 
Cyril's  almost  feminine  piety  sickened  his  soul.  He  saw 
him  kneeling  before  the  picture  of  the  Crucifixion  with 
deadly  guilt  upon  him ;  heard  him  leading  the  simple  fam- 
ily worship  on  the  day  when  he  went  forth  in  treachery  to 
take  the  life  of  a  man  he  had  wronged;  heard  his  impas- 
sioned, half-hysterical  sermon  on  Innocents'  Day;  saw  him 
dealing  the  very  Bread  of  Life  to  himself  and  Lilian ;  re- 
membered the  message  he  had  sent  him  during  his  deten- 
tion, "He  shall  make  thy  righteousness  clear  as  the  light, 
and  thine  innocence  as  the  noonday;"  and  broke  forth  in 
curses  on  all  canting  hypocrites  who  make  religion  a  cloak 
for  evil  deeds. 

And  he  had  loved  this  man  so  well,  trusted  and  revered 
him,  fed  his  soul  on  his  moral  beauty.  That  was  the 
sharpest  stab  in  the  confusion  of  pain  that  poured  upon 
him.  And  Marion  loved  him,  and  Lilian,  and  the  guile- 
less family  at  Malbourne;  and  if  Cyril  should 'turn  and 
repent  even  now  at  the  eleventh  hour,  what  would  come 
of  it  but  shame  and  misery  to  those  he  loved  so  tenderly? 
Should  he  denounce  him  himself — he,  the  convict?  No; 
that  would  only  double  the  anguish  of  all  those  innocent 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  ail 

hearts,  and  perhaps  avail  nothing.  If  he  had  but  sus- 
pected before!  but  now  it  was  too  late. 

Soon  he  would  stand  in  his  jailer's  presence,  stripped 
of  his  very  garments,  no  longer  a  man,  but  a  thing;  called 
no  more  by  a  name,  but  a  number;  beggared  in  mind, 
body  and  soul;  and  a  stony  despair  possessed  him.  Mr. 
Hawkshaw  thought  he  might  get  five  years,  he  told  him, 
and  five  years,  or  even  ten,  left  some  small  room  for 
hope.  After  five  years,  youth  would  not  be  utterly  gone ; 
he  might  still  bridge  over  the  gap  in  his  life.  He  might 
go  to  some  new  world  and  begin  over  again,  wasted  by 
imprisonment,  with  five  precious  years  lost,  but  still 
in  the  prime  of  his  faculties.  But  twenty  years  shut 
out  all  hope — twenty  years  of  early  manhood  and 
maturity,  cut  off  from  all  sources  of  mental  activity, 
from  all  knowledge  of  the  the  world  and  life,  the  echoes  of 
whose  onward  rolling  wheels  could  never  reach  him; 
chained  to  manual  toil;  herded  with  the  scum  and  off- 
scouring  of  vice  and  misery.  Supposing  that  he  survived 
this  awful  fate,  what  could  he  expect  to  be  at  the  end? 

He  was  glad  now  that  none  of  his  friends  save  Mr. 
Maitland  and  George  Everard  had  seen  him  since  his  ar- 
rest. His  fate  was  beyond  the  reach  of  sympathy  or  help ; 
the  only  thing  now  was  to  keep  its  contamination  to  him- 
self. He  refused  to  take  leave  of  any  one.  George  had 
irritated  him  by  untimely  exhortations,  by  gifts  of  tracts, 
and  a  disbelief  in  his  innocence,  or  rather,  a  stubborn  as- 
sumption that  he  was  guilty  on  all  counts,  which  aston- 
ished him  beyond  measure;  Marion  sent  her  love,  and 
would  see  him  "if  he  wished;"  his  father  and  two  brothers 
were  still  abroad ;  and  his  married  sisters  agreed  with  their 
husbands  that  Henry  was  dead  to  them. 

But  Mr.  Maitland  procured  an  interview  after  the  con- 
viction, and  was  accompanied  by  Lilian.  The  meeting 
was  brief  and  agonized.  Lilian's  marvelous  self-control 
kept  her  outwardly  calm,  while  the  calm  of  utter  despair 
quieted  Everard.  He  bid  her  forget  him,  think  of  him  as 
dead;  reminded  her  that  she  had  her  life  to  live  in  the 
outside  world;  and  hoped  she  would  open  her  heart  to 
newer  and  happier  affections.  Lilian  replied  that  she 
never  could  and  never  would  forget  the  one  love  of  her 
life;  that  the  cruel  fate  which  separated  them  for  twenty 


212  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

years  could  not  cancel  the  bond  between  them,  which  was 
eternal.  "Besides,"  she  added,  with  a  sorrowful  smile, 
"your  innocence  may  yet  be  proved." 

"My  poor  Lilian,"  he  returned,  thinking  how  bitter  such 
a  proof  would  be  for  her,  "we  must  not  venture  to  hope  for 
that." 

"I  shall  pray  for  it  night  and  day,"  replied  Lilian; 
"and,  in  the  meantime,  do  not  forget  me,  Henry.  Re- 
member the  morning  in  the  wood,  and  all  that  you  prom- 
ised me." 

He  turned  his  face  away  and  could  not  speak  for  some 
time;  and  Lilian  continued  in  .her  quiet  way  to  tell  him 
how  grieved  Cyril  would  be  to  have  missed  seeing  him, 
and  how  terribly  he  had  suffered  by  his  friend's  calamity. 
Lilian  had  only  left  his  bedside  for  the  short  time  granted 
her  to  bid  farewell  to  Everard,  for  Cyril  was  at  death's 
door.  He  had  not  ceased  raving  since  he  recovered  from 
the  fainting-fit  into  which  the  passing  of  Everard's  sen- 
tence threw  him.  All  thisEverard  heard  with  the  same 
stony  calmness,  which  was  shaken  only  by  the  ineffable 
pity  he  felt  for  Lilian.  It  would  be  better  for  her. if 
Cyril  should  die,  he  thought,  though  for  himself  it  would 
cut  off  the  last  possibility  of  escape  from  dishonor.  He 
sent  a  tender  message  to  Marion,  thanked  Mr.  Maitland 
for  all  his  kindness,  and  then  it  was  time  for  his  friends 
to  go.  ^ 

"I  shall  never  forget  you,  Henry,"  Lilian  said,  as  their 
hands  were  clasped  in  a  last  farewell.  "I  have  but  one 
life  and  one  love.  Twenty  years'  suffering  will  not  make 
me  love  you  less.  I  can  never  forget  you — never." 

Lilian's  firm  lips  quivered,  as  she  spoke  these  words  in  a 
voice  the  natural  music  of  which  was  enhanced  by  the 
deepest  mingling  of  love  and  sorrow,  and  the  quiver 
recalled  to  Henry's  mind  the  pitiful  trembling  he  had 
often  seen  in  Cyril's  mouth,  the  sign  of  a  fatal  inherent 
weakness  of  purpose.  The  sharpening  of  her  features 
and  the  pallor  consequent  on  mental  suffering  and  intense 
emotion  further  increased  Lilian's  likeness  to  her  twin 
brother,  and  Everard  felt  his  heart  rent  in  twain  by  a 
tumult  of  conflicting  feelings  as  he  took  his  last  long  look 
%t  the  sorrowful,  beloved  face. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  213 

He  could  reply  only  by  a  look  which  haunted  Lilian 
ever  after,  and  by  a  closer  pressure  of  the  beautiful  adored 
hand,  and  then  he  heard  the  doors  shut  with  a  dreadful 
heart-crushing  sound  behind  her. 

In  that  moment  of  exquisite  anguish  his  stony  despair 
gave  way,  for  the  farewell  between  true  lovers  can  never 
be  all  pain,  and  a  holier  though  deeper  agony  shook'his 
heart,  mingled  with  a  rush  of  the  old  pity  and  affection 
for  his  friend,  and  a  thousand  thoughts  and  feelings 
poignant  with  joy  as  well  as  sadness,  and  he  dropped  his 
head  upon  his  hands  and  cried  as  Englishmen,  and  even 
English  boys,  rarely  cry.  He  never  shed  such  tears  again, 
though  the  time  came  when  he  would  have  given  worlds 
for  the  power  of  such  a  passionate  outburst. 

Lilian  also  broke  down  when  the  door  closed  upon  the 
unfortunate  prisoner,  and  wept,  regardless  for  once  of 
her  father's  feelings,  unrestrained  by  the  presence  of  the 
stolid  and  indifferent  prison  officials,  to  all  of  whom  a 
woman's  tears  were  a  too-familiar  sight,  until  she 
regained  her  brother's  room,  and  took  her  part  in  placing 
ice  on  his  burning  head,  and  listening  to  his  incessant 
ravings  of  battles  and  music  and  churches,  and  his  fre- 
quent calls  to  Lilian  to  protect  him  from  some  shadowy 
and  awful  terror.  Then  Lilian  would  lay  her  hands 
gently  and  firmly  upon  him,  and  tell  him  she  was  there 
and  nothing  should  hurt  him;  and  then  sometimes  a  dim 
glimmering  of  consciousness  would  return  to  his  wild  and 
vacant  gaze  for  a  moment,  and  he  would  be  quieter  for  a 
time;  till  at  last,  after  a  long  and  weary  time,  one  day, 
when  Lilian  felt  that  her  strength  was  quite  at  an  end, 
he  looked  up  with  a  glance  of  recognition  and  spoke  her 
name. 

Then  they  were  told  that  he  would  live,  but  whether 
his  reason  would  ever  return  to  him  depended  greatly 
upon  his  treatment  during  convalescence. 


214  THE  8ILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


PART  H. 


'  A  peace  above  all  earthly  dignities, 
A  Btill  and  quiet  conscience." 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  full  glory  of  late  summer  brooded  in  afternoon  still- 
ness over  the  golden  harvest  fields,  the  gray  dreamy 
downs,  the  deep-shadowed  woods,  and  the  soft  azure 
glimpses  of  sea  around  Malbourne.  Everything  seemed 
wrapped  in  rich,  delicious  luxury.  Improvident  boys  rev- 
elled in  blackberries,  and  stormed  their  friends'  heavily 
laden  fruit-trees;  while  provident  squirrels  watched  the 
swelling  acorns  and  hazel-nuts,  and  prepared  little  gran- 
aries for  storing  them  when  ripe.  The  sun  had  drawn  the 
richest  tones  of  color  from  everything — from  the  ruddy- 
ing apple  and  purpling  plum;  from  the  brown-gold  corn 
and  brilliant  wayside  flowers ;  from  the  dark -green  woods 
and  purple  clover  patches;  from  the  bronzed  faces  and 
limbs  of  the  laborers  and  children;  from  the  cottage 
gardens,  bright  with  scarlet-runner,  vegetable  marrow 
and  rich  fruit.  Passing  down  the  village  street,  you 
could  scarcely  see  the  thatched  cottages  for  the  flowers 
about  them,  the  gay  hollyhocks  standing  like  homely 
sentinels  among  the  red  snap-dragons,  geraniums,  carna- 
tions, and  gillyflowers;  while  the  Rectory  grounds  were 
gay  with  their  fullest  bloom,  and  the  redspur  valerian 
climbed  over  the  low  churhyard  wall,  and  red  poppies 
blazed  through  the  corn,  which  stood  ready  for  the  sickle 
on  the  other  side. 

The  yellow  lichens  and  stonecrop  on  the  gray  spire 
and  tiled  roof  of  the  church  glowed  intensely  in  the 
sleepy  sunshine,  into  which  a  warm  haze  had  brought  a 
ruddy  tint,  and  the  blue  sky  gazed,  softened  and  dreamy, 
through  >the  same  hazy  veil.  Down  from  the  belfry. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  215 

standing  there  in  the  sweet  blue,  fell  the  slow,  drowsy 
chime  of  the  three  old  mellow  bells,  and  floated  pleasantly 
over  the  quiet,  basking  fields,  where  cows  stood  with- 
drawn beneath  the  trees,  chewing  contentedly,  with  lazily 
winking  eyes  and  whisking  tails;  and  the  horses  fed  se- 
renely, not  knowing  that  they  would  have  to  drag  all  fiiat 
rich  harvest  home  before  long;  and  the  little  brook  bab- 
bled faintly,  because  of  the  great  heat  which  consumed  it. 

Service  was  over,  and  people  were  straggling  home 
through  fields  or  lounging  at  garden  gates  in  idleness  and 
Sunday  clothes,  though  the  full  male  toilet  was  subdued 
by  a  tendency  to  shirt-sleeves.  Granfer  was  holding 
forth  to  a  select  circle  outside  the  low  wall  of  the  church- 
yard, where  he  was  wont  to  bask  in  the  sun,  like  some 
novel  species  of  lizard,  the  summer  long.  Farmer  Long 
was  wending  his  way  slowly  homeward  with  his  family, 
full  of  thought.  He  had  decided  to  cut  his  first  wheat- 
field,  half  a  mile  off,  on  the  morrow,  and  lo !  he  saw  that 
the  corn  through  which  they  were  passing  was  over-ripe 
and  crying  out  for  the  sickle. 

Farmer  Long  was  puzzled.  He  could  not  think  why 
Providence  made  the  corn  ripe  all  at  once,  when  it  was 
obvious  that  it  could  not  all  be  cut,  much  less  carried,  at 
the  same  time.  "You  may  depend  upon  it,"  his  wife 
told  him,  "Providence  have  got  plenty  to  do  without 
thinking  o'  your  earn,  Long.  Cutting  it  and  carrying 
is  our  lookout.  All  Providence  have  to  do  is  to  put  it 
there  for  us,  and  thankful  we  must  be  that  there's  any  to 
cut."  Which  Mr.  Long  reflected  upon  over  his  pipe  after 
tea,  not  without  a  remote  inward  conviction  that  he  would 
have  made  better  arrangements  himself. 

Sunday  afternoon  is  the  great  time  for  sweet-hearting. 
Many  a  shy  couple  detached  itself  from  the  straggling 
parties  going  homeward,  and  wandered  off  through  wood 
and  field-paths  and  green  lanes,  for  the  most  part  silent, 
but  contented,  if  not  happy,  and  full  of  more  unspoken 
poetry  than  the  world  dreams  of. 

It  is  a  melancholy  time  for  the  forsaken  or  scorned 
swain,  who  cocks  his  felt  hat  in  vain,  and  whose  bunch  of 
carnation  or  hollycock,  jauntily  stuck  in  his  hat-band, 
avails  him  nothing  in  the  eyes  of  the  cruel  fair.  It  was 
the  hour  when  Charles  Judkins'  misplaced  passion  gave 


2i6  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  HAITLAND. 

him  the  most  exquisite  pangs ;  an  hour  which  he  usually 
spent  in  solitary  brooding,  chiefly  by  the  brook-side,  where 
he  was  wont  to  lean  on  a  certain  stile,  shaded  appropri- 
ately by  willows,  and  "pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbled 
by,"  just  like  the  unfortunate  youth  in  Gray's  "Elegy." 
And  let  no  prosaic  child  of  culture,  who  has  outlived  the 
young  days  when  there  was  nothing  so  sweet  as  the 
misery  of  crossed  love,  think  scorn  of  our  friend,  or 
laugh  at  true  love  because  it  wears  livery  or  top-boots. 
A  garb  more  antipathetic  to  romance  than  that  of  a  spruce 
groom's  livery  scarcely  exists,  but  it  could  not  kill  the 
romance  in  Charles  Judkins'  honest  breast.  He  was 
dreaming  of  what  might  have  been  but  for  the  sin  of  one 
bad  man. 

A  pretty  cottage  filled  his  mind's  eye,  a  cottage  with  a 
porch  and  honeysuckle  and  roses,  standing  in  a  garden, 
not  too  far  from  the  Swaynestone  stables,  with  bee-hives 
and  flowers,  and  fruit,  and  vegetables,  all  grown  by  him- 
self in  leisure  hours.  Inside  he  dreamed  a  neat  par- 
lor, with  a  clock,  a  sofa  and  a  carpet.  In  a  low  chair, 
by  the  window  or  fire  according  to  season,  he  saw  a  beau- 
tiful woman,  with  rich,  dark  eyes  which  brightened  at 
his  step,  and  damask  cheeks  which  took  a  deeper  glow  at 
his  return.  There  she  would  be  with  her  needle,  busy, 
happy,  honored,  loving,  and  loved. 

Charlie's  eyes  clouded  so  with  tears  that  the  vision  van- 
ished, and  only  the  brown  brook,  with  its  imprisoned  sun- 
beams, met  his  sorrowful  gaze.  But  the  Malbourne  bells 
pealed  drowsily  on,  as  he  had  so  often  dreamed  they 
would  peal  for  his  wedding,  when  he  should  issue  from 
the  familiar  porch,  the  proudest  and  happiest  of  men,  with 
Alma — dear  Alma — in  all  her  rich  beauty,  on  his  arm. 

He  turned  hastily  away,  dashing  the  foolish  moisture 
from  his  honest  blue  eyes,  and  struck  aimlessly  along  the 
footpath,  thinking  how  her  life,  sorely  awry  as  it  was, 
might  yet  be  put  straight.  "If  I  could  only  see  her 
happy  and  respected  again,"  was  his  thought,  as  he 
strode  along,  consumed  by  no  selfish  grief.  Presently  he 
stopped  at  a  gate,  half  overgrown  with  brier  and  haw- 
thorn, and  saw  a  sight  which  filled  him  with  the  tenderest 
emotion. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  brook,  in  a  grassy  corner 


•  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  217 

between  a  coppice  and  a  field  of  ripe  wheat  which  rose 
upward  from  the  banks  of  the  little  stream,  was  Alma 
herself,  sitting-  on  a  felled  tree,  and  watching  the  play  of 
a  child  at  her  feet  on  the  grass.  Her  shawl  and  bonnet 
were  thrown  aside,  and  her  plain,  well-fitting  black  dress 
showed  her  beautiful  form  to  the  best  advantage.  There 
was  now  a  statuesque  majesty  about  her  which  matched 
well  with  the  tragedy  never  absent  from  her  proud, 
defiant  eyes.  That  habitual  expression  which  goes  so  far 
toward  making  up  the  identity  of  a  human  being  was  so 
changed  in  Alma,  and  her  features  were  so  sharpened  by 
her  terrible  experience  of  life,  that  to  any  eye  but  that  of 
love  she  was  no  longer  the  same  girl  as  she  who  had 
ridden  home  in  the  gray  winter  gloaming,  happy  and  in- 
nocent, to  the  rustic  music  of  the  wagon  bells. 

The  dark  green  of  the  coppice  and  the  deep  gold  of  the 
corn  rising  behind  her  gave  her  a  picturesque  background, 
while  the  beautiful  boy  playing  in  the  grass  at  her  feet 
made  such  a  foreground  as  any  artist  must  have  loved. 
The  child  was  dressed  daintily  in  white,  with  blue  rib- 
bons, and  with  wreaths  of  pink  convolvolus  wound  about 
him.  Alma  had  placed  a  bunch  of  scarlet  poppies  in 
her  own  dress  to  attract  his  eye.  and  was  looking  at  him 
with  a  mournful,  impassioned  gaze,  while  he  held  up  a 
tiny  finger  and  bid  her  hark  to  the  music  of  the  wedding- 
bells  which  were  ringing  to  honor  the  return  of  Cyril 
Maitland  and  his  young  bride  to  England  and  to  Mai- 
bourne,  where  they  arrived  only  the  night  before. 

Two  springs  had  scattered  flowers  on  Ben  Lee's  un- 
timely grave  in  Malbourne  churchyard,  two  summers 
had  thrown  their  golden  glory  upon  it,  and  the  months 
which  softened  the  hard  letters  on  his  headstone,  and 
braided  the  turfy  mound  above  him  with  mosses,  had 
strengthened  and  developed  the  round  limbs  and  brought 
intelligence  tc  the  bright  eyes  of  the  second  Ben  Lee, 
whose  innocent  life  began  so  dolorously  where  his  grand- 
father's had  ended  tragically. 

It  pleased  Alma  to  fancy  resemblances  to  her  father  in 
the  infant's  sweet  face,  and  the  tenderest  feeling  in  her 
life  now  was  the  occasional  fancy  that  the  child's  beauty 
and  pretty  ways  might  have  softened  her  father's  heart, 
and  perhaps  have  induced  him  to  pardon  the  dishonor  she 


2i8  THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

had  brought  on  his  honest  home.  She  dreamed  of  their 
going  away  to  some  new  place,  where  they  were  not 
known,  and  where  she  might  pass  as  a  widow,  and  do  her 
best  to  atone  for  the  evil  past.  Or,  at  least,  he  might 
have  loved  the  child,  if  he  could  not  have  forgiven  her. 

But  harder  and  more  bitter  thoughts  were  passing 
through  Alma's  mind  as  she  sat  by  the  brook  that  sunny 
afternoon,  and  smiled  mournfully  on  the  laughing  child 
and  heard  his  soft  prattle  mingled  with  the  babbling 
brook's  slow  song  and  the  lingering  chime  of  Cyril  Mait- 
land's  wedding  bells. 

She  was  thinking  how  she  would  like  to  go  away,  far 
away  to  some  unfamiliar  land,  where  her  sin  and  sorrow 
were  unknown,  and  where  she  might  begin  life  afresh, 
and  earn  a  good  name  and  honorable  up-bringing  for  her 
son.  Her  step-mother  had,  as  she  expressed  it,  washed 
her  hands  of  her  after  her  father's  death,  and  she  lived 
alone  in  a  humble  cottage  lodging,  trying  to  earn  her 
bread  by  her  needle,  or,  indeed,  by  any  industry  that  lay 
within  her  power,  and  hoping  in  time  to  live  down  her 
reproach. 

But  it  was  not  so  easy  to  get  work  in  Malbourne.  All 
classes  shunned  her;  even  the  gentle  Rector,  who  would 
otherwise  have  given  her  a  helping  hand,  could  not  over- 
come his  horror  of  the  woman  who  had  betrayed  Henry 
Everard  to  so  terrible  a  fate,  and  wished  her  away  from 
his  parish,  offering,  indeed,  to  help  her,  if  she  would  but 
go. 

Still  Alma  clung  to  the  spot  which  held  her  parents' 
graves,  and  fought  manfully  against  the  wall  of  prejudice 
which  rose  around  her,  eating  the  bread  of  tears  and  bit- 
ter humiliation  in  secret,  though  she  met  the  averted 
faces  or  contemptuous  words  of  her  former  friends  with 
heroic  calm  in  public,  but  got  scarcely  any  work.  Ben 
Lee  had  put  by  a  considerable  sum  of  money  for  one  in 
his  station,  and  this  was  divided  by  his  will  between  his 
wife  and  his  daughter.  Upon  this  little  capital  Alma 
had  been  living,  till  she  woke  to  the  mournful  conviction 
that  there  was  no  bread  for  her  to  win  in  Malbourne,  and 
also  that  a  day  would  soon  c"6me  when  her  patrimony 
would  be  exhausted. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


219 


Money  found  its  way  mysteriously  to  her  cottage — 
money  from  a  source  well  known  to  her — for  the  child's 
support;  but  Alma  scorned  to  use  it,  and,  bmng  un'able 
to  return  it  without  betraying  the  giver,  put  it  aside  for 
the  infant's  use  in  case  of  her  death  or  any  emergency. 
Like  most  women  of  any  force  of  character,  who  are 
thrown  on  their  own  resources,  after  a  time  she  began  to 
realize  how  feeble  a  being  one  woman  is  against  a  world 
of  strong  men  and  iron  prejudices  and  cruel  convictions. 
She  could  defy  the  world,  but  she  could  not  conquer  it. 
She  was  too  ignorant  to  quarrel  with  the  social  arrange- 
ments which  handicap  the  weakness  of  sex  with  extra 
weights,  and  brand  its  errors  as  crimes,  but  a  dim  sense 
of  injustice  struggled  within  her  and  still  further  con- 
fused the  moral  perceptions  already  confused  by  error  and 
crime. 

She  knew  she  could  not  expect  Heaven's  aid,  with  the 
crime  of  unrepented  perjury  upon  her  soul ;  but  before  the 
heavy  hour  when  she  stood  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man 
and  swore  away  the  honor  and  liberty  of  an  innocent 
man,  she  had  had  gleams  of  p.enitence,  when  she  had 
hoped  to  make  her  peace  with  Heaven,  and  lead  a  holy 
life.  After  that  further  plunge  into  crime,  she  could  hope 
for  no  mercy  unless  she  undid  her  dreadful  deed. 

But  though  Alma  went  to  church  and  prayed  for  the 
helpless  child,  who  could  not  pray  for  himself,  and  hoped 
at  least  to  place  his  little  feet  on  the  heavenward  road, 
she  thought  daily  less  of  heaven,  and  was  fast  sinking 
into  the  dreadful  practical  atheism  to  which  sin  leads — 
the  atheism  which,  because  it  sins  on  unavenged,  cries, 
"Tush !  God  doth  not  regard,"  and  finally  blots  the  Maker 
out  of  the  universe  altogether. 

Alas,  poor  Alma!  she  was  made  for  a  nobler  destiny, 
and  her  honest  lover,  seeing  her  there,  with  her  mournful 
gaze  and  heroic  beauty,  felt  his  heart  thrill  with  a  vague 
sense  that,  in  spite  of  her  frailty,  she  was  not  unworthy 
of  his  passionate  adoration.  His  heart  told  him  what  his 
untutored  mind  never  could,  that  hers  was  no  common 
frailty,  but  the  lapse  of  an  exceptionally  noble  nature  Ted 
astray,  and  all  his  hope  was  to  set  her  up  again  on  the 
pedestal  whence  a  villain's  arts  had  hurled  her. 

So  absorbed  was  she  in  melancfib'ly  musing,  that  for  a 


22o  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

long  time  she  did  not  observe  him,  and  he  enjoyed  a  pen- 
sive rapture  in  the  mere  sense  of  her  presence  and  the 
sight  of  her  tragic  beauty,  so  well  set  off  by  the  glowing 
hues  of  the  golden  corn,  with  the  poppies  blazing  through 
it,  by  the  dark  road,  and  by  the  bright  appearance  of  the 
pretty  child  in  his  ribbons  and  flo,wers.  He  would  have 
liked  some  enchanter  to  fix  them  there  forever,  while  the 
child  and  the  brook  babbled,  the  bees  hummed,  the 
grasshopper  uttered  his  shrill  note  of  joy,  and  the  bells 
pealed  on  from  the  hidden  tower.  He  watched  the 
changes  of  her  face  with  compassionate  yearning;  he  saw 
the  pain  deepen  in  it.  She  was  thinking  of  that  morn- 
ing's experience. 

She  had  been  on  her  way  to  church  as  usual,  a  soli- 
tary figure  in  the  straggling  crowd  of  friends  and  neigh- 
bors, when  those  in  front  of  her  pressed  back  from  the 
lych-gate  to  let  a  group  of  gentlefolk  pass,  and  Alma 
found  herself  one  of  a  little  line  of  church-goers,  with 
whom  they  exchanged  greetings.  Mrs.  Maitland  and 
Lilian  came  first,  then  Cyril  and  Marion,  lastly  the  chil- 
dren. Alma  made  her  courtesy  with  her  usual  proud 
humility,  looking  her  superiors  in  the  face  with  haughty 
calm. 

Cyril  recognized  his  old  friends  with  the  glances  which 
he  knew  so  well  how  to  distribute,  missing  Alma's  face 
with  the  ease  and  naturalness  of  good  breeding;  but 
Marion's  eye  lighted  on  the  beatiful  face  of  the  ruined 
girl,  and  Alma  never  forgot  the  hot  flash  of  shame  and 
the  start  of  shuddering  aversion  with  which  she  turned  to 
her  husband,  pressing  close  to  his  side  as  if  for  protection, 
or  the  exquisite  tenderness  of  the  look  Cyril  gave  her,  as 
he  returned  the  pressure  on  his  arm,  and  quickened  his 
pace  to  lead  Marion  away  from  the  sight  which  so  dis- 
tressed her.  The  burning  blood  sprang  to  Alma's  face, 
her  temples  throbbed  wildly,  and  in  the  tumult  of  min- 
gled passion  which  convulsed  her,  the  impulse  of  a  tiger- 
ish fury  surged  up,  and  bade  her  rush  before  Marion's 
face  and  hurl  her  to  the  ground  with  one  blast  of  truth 
shouted  out  in  the  ears  of  the  little  public  standing  near. 

In  five  words  she  could  bring  Marion's  pride  forever  to 
the  dust,  and  blight  all  the  happiness  of  her  life.  But 
the  impulse  sank  amid  the  roar  of  other  passions,  and 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  22l 

Alma  remained  outwardly  quiet,  passing  sedately  up  the 
churchyard  path  among  the  others,  into  the  cool,  hushed 
church,  where  the  words  of  benediction  and  hope  sounded 
in  vain  for  her. 

The  poignant  memory  of  Marion's  look  made  her  eyes 
flash  and  her  bosom  heave  in  the  sunny  stillness  by  the 
brookside,  and  with  a  deep  sigh  and  a  gesture  of  pain 
she  looked  up  and  met  poor  Charlie's  adoring  gaze. 

In  a  moment,  the  gate  on  which  he  leaned  was  cleared, 
the  bit  of  meadow  crossed,  the  brook  leaped,  and  he 
stood  before  her,  joyously  welcomed  by  the  child,  who 
had  too  few  friends  not  to  appreciate  this  one,  to  whom 
he  owed  many  a  toy  and  cake  and  still  more  welcome 
game  of  play. 

"Alma,"  Judkins  cried,  taking  off  his  hat  that  the  child 
might  play  with  its  gold  band,  "dear,  dear  Alma,  it  cuts 
into  my  heart  to  see  you  looking  so  sorrowful." 

"Never  mind  me,  Charlie,"  she  replied,  with  a  wan 
smile.  "I  brought  it  all  on  myself,  and  no  one  can  help 
me.  Go  away,  please ;  it  will  do  neither  of  us  any  good 
to  be  seen  together." 

"One  minute,  Alma,"  he  protested;  "let  me  speak  out 
once  more.  I  love  you  so  true,  Alma,  so  true ;  I  can't  give 
you  up.  Let  bygones  be  bygones,  and  do  you  try  to  care 
for  me.  It's  what  your  poor  father  always  wished,  my 
dear,  and  what  might  have  been,  if  villains —  It's  by- 
gones, Alma,  bygones,  and  can't  be  helped  any  way  now; 
but  you  med  have  taken  me  in  time  if  that  hadn't  come  be- 
tween us,  and  you  med  be  happy  yet.  I'll  be  a  good  hus- 
band; I'll  be  a  father  to  that  innocent  child  that  is  fond  of 
me  already.  In  another  place  nobody  need  know  he 
isn't  mine,  and  I'll  never  bring  up  the  past  agen  you — 
never.  There's  a  many  have  begun  life  similar  and  no 
trouble  between  them." 

"It  would  be  wronging  you,  Charlie,"  replied  Alma; 
"you  are  too  good  for  the  like  of  me.  I  could  never  care 
for  you  as  a  wife  ought.  I  loved  too  true  once,  and  I  can 
never  love  any  more.  We  are  only  young  once,  and  we 
can  only  love  once,"  she  said,  expressing  Lilian's  thought 
in  other  words.  "No,  Charles,  I  mustn't  take  advantage 
of  you;  you  must  go  and  forget  me." 


222  THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

"Look  here,  Alma!  that's  true  about  only  loving  once; 
and  do  you  think,  if  I  couldn't  forget  you  after  what  has 
come  between  us,  I  ever  could  now?  No,  my  dear.  I 
love  you  true,  and  ever  shall,  and  all  I  want  is  to  make 
you  happy,  that  has  been  wronged.'' 

Alma  burst  into  tears,  and  bid  him  not  think  too  well 
of  her,  for  that  she  had  grievously  sinned. 

"And  if  we  are  only  young  once,  you  are  still  young," 
he  continued;  "you  have  a  good  deal  of  life  yet  to  live, 
and  no  soul  to  look  to  but  me.  And  he  is  as  good  as 
dead,  and  that  makes  a  difference.  Take  me,  Alma,  and 
you'll  maybe  get  fonder  of  me  than  you  think.  Consfiier 
the  child,  too.  You'll  never  get  work  in  Malbourne ;  and 
how'll  you  get  it  where  you  are  not  known?" 

Alma  was  crying  bitterly;  he  had  never  seen  her  in  so 
accessible  a  mood  before. 

"I  mean  to  go  away,"  she  sobbed. 

Then  Judkins  unfolded  his  cherished  project  before  her. 
"Come  right  away  with  rne,  my  dear;  come  to  America, 
where  we  can  begin  over  again  fresh,  and  no  soul  to  cast 
anything  up  against  us;  and  you  may  be  happy  and  hon- 
ored— ay,  and  more  thought  of  than  people  so  humble  as 
us  can  ever  hope  to  be  in  the  old  country.  I've  a  sister 
there,  out  West,  married,  and  went  out  four  years  ago; 
and  they  are  rich  people  now,  with  more  land  of  their 
own  than  Sir  Lionel  ever  had,  and  all  their  own  doing. 
There's  land  to  be  got  almost  for  the  asking,  and  nothing 
wanting  but  a  pair  of  stout  hands  to  make  it  covered  with 
crops  such  as  never  grow  in  poor  old  England.  Think, 
my  dear,  if  this  corn  field  here  and  half  a  dozen  more  was 
all  ours,  and  we  married,  with  a  comfortable  house  and 
horses  and  garden,  and  our  own  wood  to  burn,  and  cat- 
tle and  poultry,  besides  the  wild  game  to  feed  us,  and 
nothing  known  agen  us,  how  happy  we  might  be!  My 
sister's  husband,  he  is  a  great  man  out  there,  and  a 
precious  poor  chap  he  was  here,  to  be  sure.  Little  Benjy 
would  thrive  out  in  the  woods,  and  grow  up  to  have  land 
of  his  own,  and  never  know  but  I  was  his  father.  And 
he  should  share  equal  with  others  as  might  be  sent  us,  he 
should.  I  never  do  nothing  by  halves,  Alma;  and  if  I 
said  that  boy  was  my  son,  my  son  he  should  be,  you  may 
depend  upon  it.  I've  spoken  to  Sir  Lionel  about  it,  and 


THE  SILEXCE  OF  DEAX  MAITLAND.  223 

he  has  wrote  to  several  that  manage  about  ships  and 
expenses  and  all  that;  and  I've  a  tidy  bit  of  money  put 
by,  and  my  sister,  she  writes  every  year,  and  recommends 
me  to  come  out  West;  and  there's  no  tie  to  keep  me  here, 
and  you've  only  to  say  the  word,  and  we'd  have  the  banns 
up  next  Sunday;  and  I'd  give  warning  tomorrow,  for  I'm 
tired  of  service,  though  Sir  Lionel's  is  the  best,  and  ready 
to  leave  the  land  where  I've  seen  so  much  trouble,  and 
we'd  be  married,  and  may  be  started  from  Liverpool  this 
day  five  weeks.  Alma,  dear,  I  can't  go  and  leave  you; 
and  you  wouldn't  blight  my  prospects  and  keep  me  back 
— ay,  and  the  child — from  making  my  fortune,  would 
you?" 

"You  are  a  good  man,  Charles  Judkins,"  replied  Alma, 
drying  her  eyes;  "you  deserve  better  than  to  be  ham- 
pered with  such  as  me.  You  might  find  a  good  girl  out 
there  you  could  marry." 

There  was  a  wistful  look  in  Alma's  eyes,  that  embold- 
ened Judkins  to  paint  their  future  in  still  more  glowing 
terms,  and  urge  his  suit  more  ardently  than  ever;  and 
the  end  was  that,  when  they  strolled  slowly  back  toward 
Alma's  cottage  in  the  ruddying  sunshine,  a  bunch  of 
white  stephanotis  and  maidenhair  from  the  Swaynestone 
conservatories  had  strayed  from  Charlie's  coat  to  Alma's 
black  dress,  and  Alma's  scarlet  poppies  drooped  in  glow- 
ing languor  on  the  young  fellow's  honest  breast,  while  the 
boy's  bright  head  lay  sleeping  on  his  arm. 

The  bells  had  ceased  now,  and  the  swallows  were  sweep- 
ing round  the  gray  belfry,  bathed  in  sunlight,  and  utter- 
ing their  peculiar  twitter.  Wider  and  wider  grew  the 
circles  they  made,  now  in  search  of  prey,  now  in  chase  of 
each  other,  now  in  mere  delight  in  airy  motion,  over  the 
Rectory  roof  and  across  the  lawn,  where  a  pleasant  group 
was  gathered,  to  one  of  whom  their  sunny  breasts  and 
curving  flight  brought  sorrowful  thoughts  of  a  lonely 
prisoner,  for  whom  she  had  translated  Grossi's  exquisite 
"Rondinella  Pellegrina"  long  ago. 

"  Oh  se  anch  'io!  ma  lo  contende 
Questa  bassa  augusta  volta, 
Dove  '1  sole  non  risplende, 
Dove  '1  aria  ancor  m'e  tolta, 
Dondea  te  la  mia.  favella 
Giunge  appena,  oh,  rondinella!" 


224 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


she  was  murmuring  inwardly,  as  her  glance  followed  the 
birds  of  happy  liberty  in  their  graceful  gyrations  against 
the  lucid  sky. 

Lilian  was  making  tea  at  a  rustic  table  beneath  the  lin- 
dens on  the  lawn;  Mrs.  Maitland  lay  on  a  couch  near  her; 
Marion  reclined  in  a  low-slung  hammock,  with  one  slen- 
der foot  touching  the  turf  as  she  swayed  to  and  fro ;  Cyril 
lounged  in  a  low  garden  chair  close  at  hand,  very  much 
at  his  ease,  yet  ready  to  hold  her  cup  and  plate,  and  do 
her  bidding;  Mr.  Maitland,  placid  and  revelling  in  the 
thought  that  he  need  preach  no  more  for  a  week,  had 
another  garden  lounge,  and  asked  for  his  third  cup  of 
tea;  Lennie  lay  on  his  back,  staring  at  the  sky,  with  one 
leg  crossed  over  the  other,  and  pointing  heavenward; 
while  Winnie's  golden  curls  were  straying  over  the 
shoulder  of  Ingram  Swaynestone,  who  sat  near  Lilian, 
and  held  the  child  leaning  against  him,  encircled  by  one 
arm,  while  he  watched  the  graceful  movements  of  the  tea- 
maker,  and  delighted  in  the  slim  beauty  of  her  hands. 

Some  stone  fruit  and  a  cluster  of  purple  and  one  of 
white  grapes  on  the  tea-table  made  a  splendid  center  of 
color  beneath  the  golden  green  of  the  sunlit  lindens.  It 
was  a  sweet  and  happy  scene,  peaceful,  contented,  and 
free,  very  different  from  the  solitary  prison-cell  which 
the  swallows  suggested  to  Lilian's  imagination.  They 
had  been  talking  as  people  talk  over  tea-tables;  Cyril  had 
given  some  droll  accounts  of  things  which  had  amused 
him  in  his  recent  travels.  There  had  been  happy  laugh- 
ter and  jesting,  and  now  a  pleasant  silence,  which  no  one 
wished  to  break,  had  fallen  on  the  little  party. 

Then  it  was  that  Winnie  had  one  of  her  startling  visita- 
tions of  thoughtfulness,  and  burst  out  as  follows,  in  her 
clear,  high  treble:  "Papa,  I  wonder  how  Alma  Lee  likes 
having  to  go  to  hell?" 

"My  dear  little  girl,  what  are  you  talking  about?" 
returned  the  gentle  Rector,  startled  out  of  his  peaceful 
day-dream. 

"Well,  you  see,  she  must  go  there,"  protested  Winnie, 
with  deep  earnestness;  "it  can't  be  helped  now  she  has 
broken  two  commandments — the  third  and  the  ninth." 

"Hush,  dear!"  said  Lilian;  "you  must  not  talk  of  such 
things.  Besides,  let  us  hope  ooor  Alma  repents." 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  225 

"How  can  she  repent  with  poor  Henry  still  in  prison?" 
demanded  Winnie,  fiercely  lifting  her  head  and  tossing 
back  her  golden  mane. 

"We  must,  at  least,  hope  that  poor  Alma  will  repent 
before  she  comes  to  die,  dear,"  said  Mr.  Maitland;  "but 
it  is  not  for  any  one,  least  of  all  one  so  young  as  you,  to 
judge  her.  But  you  may  pray  for  her." 

"Besides,"  added  Mrs.  Maitland,  "we  do  not  know  that 
Alma  has  broken  those  commandments." 

"Oh,  don't  we,  though !''  cried  Lennie,  throwing  him- 
self round  to  face  his  mother;  "when  she  told  all  those 
lies  about  Henry  and  his  gray  suit.  Why,  Henry  changed 
his  clothes  before  lunch,  because  he  got  them  dirty  walk- 
ing with  Lilian." 

"If  Henry  changed  his  clothes  before  luncheon,  Len- 
nie," said  Cyril,  quietly,  "why  did  you  not  say  so  at  the 
time?" 

"Lennie's  memory  is  scarcely  to  be  trusted  after  so 
great  a  lapse  of  time,"  said  his  father.  "He  probably 
thought  the  circumstance  possible  or  desirable,  and  then 
came  to  accept  it  unconscioucly  as  a  fact.  Moreover,  is 
it  probable  that  such  a  circumstance  would  escape  every 
one's  notice  but  Lennie's?" 

"Dear  father,"  interposed  Lilian,  "can  you  recall  what 
Henry  wore  on  that  fatal  day?  I  never  could;  there  is  so 
little  variety  in  gentlemen's  dress.  Did  Marion  remem- 
ber?" 

Marion  was  crying  at  the  memory  of  those  harrowing 
events.  "I  remember  perfectly,"  she  replied,  "that  Henry 
wore  a  black  coat  at  luncheon  that  day.  He  got  some 
mustard  on  the  cuff,  and  I  helped  him  take  it  off." 

"Why  did  you  never  say  so?"  cried  Lilian.  "Oh, 
Marion,  you  and  Lennie  might  have  saved  him !" 

"You  are  very  cruel,  Lilian,  to  say  such  a  thing!" 
returned  Cyril,  with  an  angry  flash  in  his  blue  eyes. 
"Henry's  dress  at  luncheon  would  have  proved  nothing 
with  regard  to  his  subsequent  dress,  although  it  is  plain 
enough  to  us  that  he  would  not  have  changed  again. 
You  should  not  put  such  harrowing  thoughts  into  Mar- 
ion's mind.  I  thought,  too,  that  this  painful  theme  was 
not  to  be  discussed." 

"Well,  Alma    will  have  to  go  to  hell  all  the  same," 


226  THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

returned  Lennie,  with  conviction.  "I  don't  care,"  he 
added,  on  being  rebuked  by  Cyril  for  his  sweeping  judg- 
ment and  strong  language;  "it's  in  the  Bible  about  liars 
having  their  part  in  fire  and  brimstone,  and  with  all  your 
preaching  you  can't  preach  it  out." 

Cyril  pressed  his  hand  to  his  side  with  the  old  gesture, 
and  a  low  moan  escaped  him.  His  face  was  gray  with 
pain,  and  the  drops  of  anguish  stood  on  his  brow.  "I 
cannot  bear  this,"  he  gasped. 

"My  poor  boy!"  sighed  Mr.  Maitland;  "we  have  been 
too  cruel  in  reopening  this  deadly  wound.  Come  with 
me.  Come,  Marion,  dry  your  eyes.  I  want  to  show  you 
my  bees,  real  Ligurians;  and  you  must  tell  me,  botft  of 
you,  what  you  think  of  my  hives." 

They  strolled  away  accordingly,  leaving  the  remainder 
of  the  tea-party,  and  particularly  the  youthful  preacher, 
Lennie,  aghast. 

"Mrs.  Maitland,"  asked  Ingram  Swaynestone,  who 
had  by  no  means  enjoyed  this  unexpected  airing  of  the 
family  skeleton,  "when  are  you  going  to  muzzle  this 
brat?" 


CHAPTER  II. 

Just  then  a  lusty  baritone  voice  was  heard  in  the  lane, 
which  was  sunk  out  of  sight  between  the  Rectory  and 
Northover  grounds,  singing  joyously — 


"  Maxwelton  braes  are  bonnie, 
Where  early  fa's  the  dew, 
And  'tis  there  that  Annie  Laurie 
Gied  me  her  promise  true — 
Gied  me  her  promise  true, 
Which  ne'er  forgot  will  be; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I'd  lay  me  down  and  dee." 


"Catch  me  deeing,"  observed  Ingram,  sarcastically. 

"A  precious  rum  song  for  a  Sunday,"  added  Lennie, 
whose  virtuoust  frame  of  mind  was  rather  trying  in  its 
intensity. 


THB  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  227 

"I'd  lay  me  doon  and  dee,"  sang  the  unconscious  min- 
strel at  the  very  top  of  his  compass. 

"No  you  wouldn't,"  Lennie  shouted. 

Then  they  walked  across  the  lawn,  peeped  over  the 
hedge,  and  saw  Judkins  stepping  gayly  homeward  with 
Alma's  scarlet  poppies  in  his  coat.  Judkins  looked  up, 
startled,  and  stopped,  blushing,  in  the  emission  of  his 
highest  note. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Swaynestone,"  he  replied,  re- 
spectfully saluting;  "but  indeed  I  would." 

"Well,  I  think  you  would,  Judkins,  you  foolish  fel- 
low," returned  Ingram,  laughing.  "What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  this  festive  cheer,  may  I  ask?  Why  rouse  the 
echoes  of  Malbourne  with  the  sounds  of  riot  and  mirth?" 

"Sir,"  replied  Judkins,  "I'm  engaged  to  be  married. 
To-morrow  I  give  warning,  and  in  five  weeks'  time  I 
hope  to  sail  for  America." 

"Let  me  recover,  Lennie,"  said  Ingram,  after  having 
congratulated  the  fortunate  swain,  and  sent  him  on  his 
way.  "And  look  here,  young  one,  not  a  word  of  this  to 
any  one.  And  please  to  remember  that  tragedies  are 
not  disucssed  over  tea-pots,  and  ladies  are  not  supposed 
to  know  anything  unpleasant,  and,  above  all,  that  people 
never  publicly  allude  to  their  relations  when  in  jail." 

"'Twasn't  me;  'twas  Win  began  it,"  growled  Lennie. 
"Besides,  you  are  nobody.  You  are  always  here  at1:ea- 
time.  You  are  going  in  for  Lilian,  it's  my  belief.  You 
do  nothing  but  stare  at  her  like  a  great  gawk." 

"You  are  a  promising  young  party,  upon  my  word," 
observed  Ingram,  picking  him  up  by  the  jacket-collar. 
"Marvyn  should  whip  you  more." 

So  saying,  he  carried  the  struggling  boy  back  to  the 
tea-drinkers  and  deposited  him  in  the  fork  of  a  tree, 
where  he  bid  him  remain,  under  pain  of  chastisement, 
while  he  and  Winnie  aimed  handkerchiefs  and  other 
missiles  at  him,  unmindful  for  a  moment  of  Alma  Lee's 
affairs. 

Lilian  was  trying  to  get  Mark  Antony  to  accept  a 
saucer  of  cream,  on  which  the  naughty  favorite  perpetu- 
ally turned  his  back,  or  rather  his  tail,  with  cool  disdain ; 
while  Snip  and  Snap  watched  it  with  eager  eyes,  know- 


228  TEE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

ing  that  Mark's  final  rejection  of  the  dainty  would  con- 
sign it  to  them. 

"There  are  moments,"  said  Ingram,  who  watched 
the  scene  with  a  sort  of  impatient  interest,  "when  a  man 
might  envy  a  cat." 

Lilian  assured  him  that  there  was  plenty  of  cream  in  the 
dairy,  if  he  would  like  some;  and  Mr.  Maitland  and 
Marion  returned — the  latter  still  looking  troubled — when 
it  became  painfully  apparent  to  Mr.  Swaynestone  that  he 
had  already  lingered  longer  in  the  family  circle  than  he 
should  have  done  and  he  regretfully  took  his  leave. 

Lilian  looked  after  him  with  a  half-pained  gaze  as  he 
went  to  the  gate,  accompanied  by  her  father;  then  she 
returned  to  Marion.  "Where  is  Cyril?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  his  hour  for  private  devotion,"  she  replied,  speak- 
ing in  a  voice  intended  only  for  Mrs.  Maitland  and  Lilian, 
the  children  having  set  off  down  the  drive  to  bid  their 
playfellow  another  good-bye.  "I  sometimes  wish,"  she 
added,  with  a  sigh,  "that  Cyril  were  not  quite  so  devout." 

"Dear  child,  that  is  a  bad  wish,"  rebuked  Mrs.  Mait- 
land. 

"He  will  be  upset  for  at  least  a  day,"  continued  Ma- 
rion, abstractedly,  "and  will  see  none  of  us.  He  is 
still  so  sensitive;  the  least  reference  to  my  poor  brother 
invariably  has  this  effect.  I  was  the  last  transgressor," 
continued  Marion,  with  a  sorrowful  smile.  "It  was  at 
Chillon.  When  we  were  in  that  dreadful  crypt  by  Bonni- 
vard's  pillar,  somebody  began  to  quote  Byron's  'Prisoner' 
— some  tiresome  tourist.  I  could  not  help  it,  Lilian,  but 
the  thought  of  being  shut  up  all  those  years ;  the  thought 
that  Henry,  who  read  those  very  lines  so  unthinkingly  on 
that  fatal  day,  as  you  told  me,  was  actually  suffering — 
Oh,  dear!"  added  Marion,  checking  a  sob.  "I  turned 
and  asked  Cyril  to  take  me  away  from  that  dreadful 
place.  Heaven  knows  what  I  said.  Something  about 
my  unfortunate  brother,  I  suppose.  Well,  Cyrii  fainted. 
He  told  me  then  that  I  must  never  speak  of  him." 

"He  will  grow  less  sensitive  as  his  health  improves  and 
his  happiness  becomes  more  habitual."  Mrs.  Maitland 
said,  trying  to  soothe  the  agitated  girl. 

"It  would  be  more  manly  in  Cyril,  and  far  better  for 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  229 

him,  if  he  would  but  accept  the  fact,  and  make  up  his 
mind  to  meet  it  bravely,"  said  Lilian.  "He  cannot  go 
on  in  this  way;  his  long  illness  has  spoiled  him.  I  must 
speak  to  him — " 

"Oh,  Lilian!"  interposed  Marion,  "pray  don't  speak" 
to  him!  He  can't  bear  it,  indeed.  You  will  only  make 
matters  far  worse,  indeed — indeed!  You  think  you 
understand  Cyril,  but  you  are  mistaken.  You  are  not 
his  wife.  I  have  been  his  wife  only  two  months,  but  I 
know  more  about  him  than  I  ever  knew  of  any  human 
being  before." 

And  the  knowledge  had  taken  the  careless  gayety 
from  Marion's  manner  and  the  youthful  ring  from  her 
laughter.  It  was  not  without  reason  that  she  vaunted 
her  fresh  matronly  dignity,  and  said,  with  half-sad  play- 
fulness, "I  am  older  than  you  now,  Lilian — years,  years 
older." 

"We  must  bear  with  dear  Cyril,"  said  Mr.  Maitland, 
who  had  joined  them.  "Suffering  of  unusual  severity 
has  been  laid  upon  him,  his  whole  life  has  received  a 
shock,  and  we  must  remember  that  we  saved  his  reason 
only  as  by  a  miracle.  Even  now  his  mind  is  not  firmly 
balanced.  Marion  must  heal  that  mind  as  only  she  can. 
But  Cyril  will  bear  the  scars  of  this  furnace  all  his  life, 
poor  lad.  We  must  not  marvel  that  he  is  changed." 

Every  one  recognized  the  fierceness  of  the  furnace 
through  which  Cyril  had  passed,  leaving  his  youth  be- 
hind, and  yet  it  never  struck  people  that  the  blow  was 
naturally  more  severe  to  Lilian.  Even  Mr.  Maitland, 
with  the  memory  of  Lilian's  passionate  outburst  when 
she  confided  the  story  of  Everard's  love  to  him,  did  not 
reflect  that  it  makes  a  greater  shipwreck  of  life  to  lose  a 
lover  than  a  friend.  The  tragedy  of  Cyril's  youth  threw 
an  additional  glamour  over  him  for  the  remainder  of  his 
life;  his  deep  friendship  and  the  sensitiveness  which 
made  him  grieve  to  the  point  of  losing  his  reason  and 
almosthis  life  over  a  brother's  shame  invested  him  with 
a  romantic  interest  which  never  faded.  It  was  whispered 
about  in  after  years,  with  various  modifications  and  addi- 
tions, but  always  to  Cyril's  credit,  long  after  the  trial  and 
the  catastrophe  to  the  Everards  was  forgotten. 

The  illness  with  which  Cyril  had  been     stricken    on 


230  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

hearing  Everard's  terrible  doom  left  its  marks  on  him 
for  life.  No  one  could  say  how  he  was  changed,  but  it 
was  certain  that  he  was  never  the  same  man  again.  Dur- 
ing the  slow  process  of  recovery,  he  was  for  months  like 
a  child  in  intellect,  living  only  for  trifles,  laughing  at  a 
mere  nothing,  speaking  only  as  a  child  speaks,  reading 
nothing  but  the  lightest  literature,  and  preferring  that 
specially  consecrated  to  boys'  amusement,  and  above  all, 
strictly  forbidden  to  approach  any  painful  topic  in 
thought  or  speech. 

The  day  that  saw  him  out  of  danger  saw  Lilian  on  a 
bed  of  sickness,  from  which  she  arose  almost  as  weak  as 
Cyril.  The  twins  made  their  convalescence  together, 
Lilian  outstripping  her  brother  in  their  progress  toward 
health,  and  their  physical  weakness — especially  Cyril's 
which  was  excessive — made  it  easy  for  them  to  avoid 
mental  ex-ertion.  They  were  told  to  lead  an  animal  life, 
and  they  became  boy  and  girl  at  holiday  once  more. 

For  months  neither  of  them  breathed  Henry's  name,  or 
alluded  to  the  event  which  had  ended  so  tragically  for 
him.  Gradually  Cyril's  reason,  the  delicate  chords  of 
which  had  been  so  cruelly  strained,  resumed  its  natural 
tone,--  and  Lilian,  who  watched  him  like  a  mother, 
supplied  his  intellect  from  day  to  day  with  stronger  food. 
First  she  had  occupied  his  vacant  moments  with  manual 
employments — wood-carving,  painting,  and  even  needle- 
work, which  he  executed  in  the  early  days,  while  she  read 
to  him.  Then  she  advanced  him  to  gardening  and  the 
tending  of  pet  animals,  and  singing  with  her;  thence  to 
an  interest  in  public  affairs.  As  he  progressed,  and 
began  to  talk  calmly  and  seriously,  she  extended  his  read- 
ing, took  him  back  to  old  favorite  classic  authors,  and  got 
him  to  translate  these  and  modern  poets  into  English 
verse,  for  which  he  had  a  graceful  knack;  and  one  day 
when  he  brought  her  a  fresh  copy  of  original  verses,  she 
felt  that  her  patient  was  healed,  and  determined  to  send 
him  away  from  her. 

"You  have  saved  his  intellect,"  his  physician  said,  when 
she  showed  him  the  verses,  "and  I  must  confess  that  I 
had  very  little  hope  of  such  a  consummation.  No  one 
with  a  less  intimate  knowledge  of  your  brother's 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  23  T 

character  could  have  done  what  you  have  done.  You 
have  in  so  doing  saved  a  remarkably  fine,  if  delicate,  men- 
tal organization." 

Then  Cyril  travelled  for  some  months  in  Greece,  Egypt 
and  Syria — countries  particularly  interesting  to  one  of  his 
temperament  and  education.  He  revelled  in  the  poetic 
and  historic  associations  of  the  ancient  homes  of  letters 
and  arts,  and  poured  out  his  soul  in  devotional  ecstasy  on 
the  hallowed  soil  of  Jerusalem  and  Nazareth.  He  also 
wrote  a  poem,  called  "The  Knight  of  Expiation,"  in 
blank  verse. 

The  "knight,"  it  appeared,  was  visited  by  one  of  those 
unlucky  excesses  of  virtue  which  the  vulgar  call  crimes, 
and  for  which  public  opinion  usually  exacts  the  reparation 
of  hanging  in  these  prosaic  days.  The  nature  of  this 
virtuous  excess  was  discreetly  left  to  the  reader's  imagina- 
tion, a  la  Byron,  and  was  thus  as  horrible  as  the  most 
fastidious  taste  could  desire.  (Lennie  inclined  to  the 
opinion  that  the  knight  had  boiled  his  grandmother, 
and  played  dice  with  her  bones,  besides  practicing  the 
black  art.) 

The  furies  of  conscience  having  seized  upon  this  un- 
lucky victim  of  social  prejudices,  as  M.  Hugo  et  Cie,  call 
criminals,  he  put  on  a  hair  shirt,  and  went  to  the  Holy 
Land  to  do  penance  at  its  shrines,  and  returned  to  his 
native  shores  to  be  canonized.  This  plot  afforded  fine 
scope  for  Cyril's  descriptive  and  topographical  powers, 
and  admitted  of  a  beautiful  account  of  the  knight's  feel- 
ings on  first  seeing  Jerusalem,  which  would  have  been 
more  generally  admired  if  it  had  not  reminded  people  so 
strongly  of  a  similar  passage  in  Tasso.  The  character  of 
the  knight  had  unfortunately  been  anticipated  by  Byron 
in  "Childe  Harold."  Nevertheless  the  pretty  volume 
called  "The  Knight's  Expiation,  and  other  Poems,"  was 
greatly  admired,  if  not  purchased. 

Marion  had  seen  Cyril  frequently  during  his  convales- 
cence, and  had  only  parted  with  him  at  the  beginning  of 
his  tour;  and  in  the  second  June  after  his  illness,  her 
father  took  her  to  Paris,  where  Cyril  met  her,  and  was 
quietly  married  to  her.  The  young  couple  passed  a  brief 
paradise  in  Switzerland,  and  then  went  home  to  Mai- 


232 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


bourne,  whence,  after  a  few  days'  sojourn,  they  were  to  go 
to  Cyril's  fresh  curacy  in  the  west  of  London.  The  twins 
had,  however,  been  parted  since  the  time  when  Lilian 
finished  her  pious  task  of  rescuing  her  brother's  intellect 
from  the  shipwreck  which  threatened  it. 

They  had  met  again  but  four-and-twenty  hours  since, 
yet  Lilian  knew  their  old  close  relationship  was  at  an  end 
forever.  An  insurmountable  barrier  had  risen  up 
between  them.  This,  she  told  herself,  was  but  in  the 
natural  course  of 'things;  the  peculiar  bond  of  twinship, 
strengthened  as  it  had  accidentally  been  by  the  circum- 
stances of  Cyril's  terrible  illness,  could  not  be  expected 
to  outlive  early  youth.  Her  brother  had  now  found  other 
ties;  he  was  tasting  the  fulness  of  life.  The  old  childish 
associations  must  fade  in  the  full  stress  of  manhood,  and 
they  must  now  be  only  as  brothers  and  sisters  commonly 
are.  It  was  only  natural,  and  yet  it  grieved  Lilian  with 
an  unspeakable  grief.  In  the  sore  trouble  which  had 
fallen  on  her,  she  needed  her  brother's  close  friendship  as 
she  never  had  done  before. 

As  Marion  had  predicted,  they  saw  nothing  more  of 
Cyril  that  night;  but  the  next  day  he  appeared  among 
them  with  a  cloudless  brow,  and  set  them  all  laughing 
with  his  droll  anecdotes  and  observations,  the  drollery  of 
which  was  so  greatly  enhanced  by  his  grave  face  and 
almost  pathetic  voice.  He  never  laughed,  and  only  rarely 
smiled,  and  although  his  very  smile  was  sad,  it  was  as 
sweet  as  only  rare  smiles  are.  One  of  those  smiles  was 
sufficient  to  win  a  friend  for  life,  as  he  well  knew.  There 
had  been  a  time  when  he  was  wont  to  laugh  as  happily 
and  heartily  as  only  young  manhood  can. 

There  was  a  great  croquet  tournament  that  afternoon 
at  Mr.  Marvyn's,  and  there  the  Maitlands,  the  younger 
Garretts  and  Swaynestones  assembled,  to  measure  their 
powers  one  against  the  other  with  all  the  serious  ardor 
which  the  pursuit  of  croquet  in  the  palmy  days  of  its 
youth  exacted. 

Will  no  bard  arise  to  pour  forth  lyric  song  in  honor  of 
that  noble  but  now  extinct  pastime?  Can  no  historian  be 
found  to  chronicle  the  decline  and  fall  of  croquet?  It 
descended,  like  other  gifts  of  Heaven,  unexpectedly  from 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND 

some  far  celestial  eminence,  and  took  captive  the  hearts 
of  the  sons,  and  still  more  of  the  daughters,  of  men,  at 
one  stroke.  In  those  who  were  young  at  that  golden 
period,  the  peculiar  sharp  yet  dull  click  of  the  balls  still 
awakes  a  thrilling  combination  of  delicious  and  romantic 
feelings,  as  it  is  evoked  by  the  hand  of  some  careless 
child,  who  has  routed  out  the  dusty  mallets  and  balls 
from  some  forgotten  corner,  and  imagines  himself  a  new 
Columbus  in  consequence. 

Mr.  Marvyn,  who,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  curate  of 
Malbourne  and  tutor  to  the  young  Maitlands  in  succes- 
sion, had  been  very  serverely  bitten  by  the  croquet  mania. 
He  had  ruthlessly  levelled  his  wife's  flower-beds  to  make  a 
fitting  ground  for  the  noble  pastime,  and  this  he  mowed 
and  rolled  and  watered  himself,  and  upon  this  he  permit- 
ted no  unlicensed  foot  to  stray. 

When  the  players  arrived,  they  found  every  hoop  and 
stick  exactly  placed,  after  a  careful  and  accurate  measure- 
ment, on  a  lawn  newly  shaped  and  tested  by  a  spirit-level, 
and  a  host  and  hostess  too  much  burdened  with  the 
responsibility  of  reading  the  new  club  rules  to  go  through 
the  conventional  forms  of  welcome. 

An  interlude  of  tea  was  grudgingly  acquiesced  in ;  and 
Mr.  Marvyn,  laying  aside  his  own  favorite  mallet  with  a 
deep  sigh,  and  carefully  noting  the  position  of  each  player 
in  his  pocket-book,  followed  his  guests  to  some  tables  in 
the  shade  of  two  fine  elms,  and,  taking  a  chair  by  Mrs. 
Cyril  Maitland,  began  to  scold  her  seriously  for  the  blun- 
der she  had  made,  and  laughed  at,  which  was  worse, 
while  playing  on  his  side.  But  there  were  some  people, 
and  among  them  Ingram  Swaynestone,  who  took  his  tea 
on  the  grass  at  Lilian's  feet,  who  thought  the  tea  inter- 
lude by  no  means  the  least  agreeable  part  of  the  tourna- 
ment, and  responded  with  little  alacrity  to  Mr.  Marvyn's 
summons  to  continue  the  combat. 

Night  fell  all  too  soon  upon  the  eager  contest,  and  the 
light  of  the  mellow  August  moon  was  supplemented  by 
that  of  two  carriage-lamps,  which  were  carried  from  hoop 
to  hoop,  to  the  great  distraction  of  nervous  people ;  while 
the  less-ardent  players,  resigning  their  balls  to  others, 
joined  the  non-combatants  in  the  drawing-room,  ari3 


234 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


yielded  themselves  to  the  frivolity  of  conversation  and 
music. 

"Poets  are  made  of  precious  queer  stuff,"  Ingram 
Swaynestone  observed  to  Lilian,  as  they  stood  on  the 
lawn,  waiting  their  turn  to  play,  and  listened  to  a  song 
which  Miss  Swaynestone  was  singing.  "Now,  what 
could  have  put  that  notion  into  Cyril's  head?  I'm  sure 
he  never  left  off  loving  anybody." 

The  song  which  Cyril  had  written,  and  which  had  been 
daintily  set  by  an  Austrian  student  he  met  in  his  travels, 
was  as  follows: — 

"  When  I  began  to  love  you, 

'Twas  like  the  beginning  of  June, 
Like  the  dewy  birth  of  the  morning 
Or  the  swell  of  the  first  lark's  tune. 

"  All  grew  so  bright,  so  gracious, 

So  full  of  mystery  sweet, 
Such  a.  deep  and  dear  enchantment 
Had  bound  me,  hands  and  feet. 

"  But  when  I  finished  to  love  you, 
'Twas  like  the  closing  of  night, 
When  November's  gloaming  is  sheeted 
In  rain-clouds  falling  light. 

"  Ah!  when  I  finished  to  love  you, 

I  finished  with  all  things  bright, 
And  I  saw  a  dark  grave  yawning 
To  hide  my  heart  in  its  night." 

Lilian  knew  that  Cyril  had  written  it  at  the  time  of  his 
estrangement  from  Marion,  who  was  listening  to  it  now 
with  great  enjoyment,  unconscious  that  she  was  the  hero- 
ine of  it;  but  she  only  said  that  poets  were  sup- 
posed to  feel  all  the  emotions  of  which  the  human  breast 
is  capable,  and  Ingram  was  about  to  make  some  rejoinder, 
when  the  reiterated  cry  of  "Blue  to  play!''  at  last  aroused 
his  attention,  and  he  reluctantly  obeyed  the  summons. 

But  when  the  game  was  at  last  ended,  and  they  found 
themselves  going  home  in  the  moonlight  across  the  few 
fields,  and  through  the  dewy  lane  which  lay  between  the 
curate's  dwelling  and  the  rector's,  Ingram  contrived  that 
Lilian  should  linger  behind  with  him,  so  that  there  was 
no  chance  of  interruption.  The  words  of  Cyril's  song 
echoes  in  his  ears : — 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  335 

"  Such  a  deep  and  dear  enchantment 
Had  bound  me,  hands  and  feet." 

"I  cannot  break  the  spell,  Lilian,"  he  said,  "and  I 
do  not  think  it  well  to  try  any  more.  My  father  sees  it 
at  last,  and.though  at  one  time  he  wished  me  to  look  for 
rank  and  fortune,  he  now  thinks  I  cannot  do  better  than 
follow  my  heart." 

"Dear  Ingram,"  rplied  Lilian,  pausing  at  a  gate,  over 
which  they  saw  the  village  sleeping  in  the  moonlight,  "I 
would  have  spared  you  this.  I  thought  I  had  been  ex- 
plicit enough." 

"You  were  explicit  enough;  I  quite  understood  that  I 
was  refused.  But.  dearest  Lilian,  you  cannot  imagine 
how  earnestly  and  truly  I  love  you,"  he  continued,  his 
face  flushing  beneath  its  brown  with  deep  and  serious 
feeling.  "I  know  well  how  unworthy  I  am  of  you.  I  have 
not  been  a  good  man;  I  was  not  like  Cyril.  I  did 
as  others  do.  But,  dearest  Lilian,  ever  since  the  happy 
day,  long  ago  now,  when  I  found  that  I  loved  you,  'when 
I  began  to  love  you/  as  Cyril's  song  says,  it  was  indeed 
!'ke  the  beginning  of  June — everything  was  new.  I  woke 
up  to  loathe  all  those  things  in  my  life  that  were  unwortny 
of  you;  I  set  to  work  to  sweep  them  all  away,  and  do 
better.  I  am  not  good  for  much  even  now,  I  know  well ; 
but  if  there  is  any  good  in  me  at  all,  if  I  am  not  a  mere 
unscrupulous  man  of  pleasure,  if  I  have  any  higher  aspira- 
tions, if  I  try  to  do  my  duty  in  my  small  way,  it  is  all  owing 
to  you." 

"No,  Ingram,"  returned  Lilian,  looking  into  the 
honest,  manly  face,  which  was  alight  with  unwonted  fer- 
vor; "you  are  wrong,  believe  me.  It  is  not  due  to  me, 
but  to  your  own  good  and  true  nature,  which  only  needed 
the  touch  of  love — which  you  must  give  one  day,  not  to 
me,  but  to  some  better,  more  suitable  woman — to  show 
you  the  real  meaning  of  life.  Believe  me,  Ingram,  men 
are  not  so  dependent  on  women.  Do  not  give  in  to  the 
conventional  fiction  of  making  your  better  self  depend  on 
anything  so  uncertain  as  the  will  and  liking  of  one  weaker 
than  yourself.  The  moral  nature  of  men  is  stronger  than 
that  of  women.  We  all  want  something  to  lean  upon. 


236  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

Do  not  make  pillars  of  us.  Do  you  think  any  woman 
could  love  one  she  believed  her  inferior?'' 

"I  hope  and  trust  so,"  said  Ingram,  with  a  little  smile. 
"Without  that  there  would  be  little  chance  of  happiness 
for  me  and  many  other  poor  fellows.  Dear  Lilian,  try 
to  love  me.  How  can  I  live  without  you?" 

"I  thought  we  were  to  be  friends,"  replied  Lilian,  with 
a  sigh  and  a  regretful  intonation  of  her  beautiful  voice. 

It  was  like  the  most  exquisite  music  to  Ingram's  ear;  it 
seemed  to  take  his  soul  captive  and  surround  him  with 
the  purest  delight.  Merely  to  hear  her  discoursing  on 
every-day  themes  to  others,  filled  him  with  a  sense  of 
delicious  perfection  which  no  cares  could  distract. 

"We  must  be  something  more  than  friends,"  he  said, 
"when  the  very  sound  of  your  voice  stirs  every  fibre 
within  me." 

"We  can  never  be  more  than  friends;  it  is  not  in  my 
power,"  she  replied,  quickly  and  with  agitation. 

Ingram  looked  at  her  pale,  pure  face  with  a  startled 
glance,  and  saw  that  tears  were  fast  gathering  in  her  eyes. 
Was  there  some  hidden  trouble  in  her  serene  and  lovely 
life?  He  could  not  think  of  it.  She  had  outlived  the  pain 
and  annoyance  of  her  old  playmate's  ruin;  she  had  re- 
ceived her  brother  back  from  the  very  jaws  of  death ;  all 
was  fair  and  pleasant  around  her.  Her  step  was  light 
as  only  that  of  health  and  young  happiness  can  be;  her 
laughter  had  the  most  joyous  ring  of  any  he  ever  heard; 
she  was  always  bright  and  full  of  pleasant  thoughts  and 
airy  suggestions.  No;  it  was  not  possible  that  sorrow 
could  have  a  home  in  her  heart.  He  looked  silently  and 
searchingly  at  the  figure  by  his  side. 

She  was  of  more  ethereal  mold  than  she  had  been  in 
earlier  days;  and  her  features,  losing  the  soft,  joyous 
curves  of  youth,  had  fined  into  that  perfect  purity  of  out- 
line which  in  her  brother  seemed  austerity,  but  in  her 
suggested  spirit-like  sweetness.  The  twins'  faces  had 
been  cast  in  the  very  same  mold,  only  the  lips  were  fuller 
and  firmer  in  the  sister,  and  she  lacked  the  squareness 
visible  in  her  brother's  jaw.  For  the  first  time,  Ingram 
asked  himself  the  question  people  never  asked  when  under 


TBE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


237 


the  spell  of  Lilian's  glances — Had  she  beauty?  And  his 
answer  was  in  the  affirmative. 

"Dear  Lilian,"  he  said,  "it  is  in  your  power  to  try  to 
love  me." 

Lilian  shook  her  head.  "Do  you  remember  the  day 
of  Ben  Lee's  death?"  she  asked.  "Henry  Everard 
and  I  were  in  Temple  Copse  at  mid-day  when  Long's 
wagon  was  passing.  It  was  then — "  Lilian  faltered,  and 
her  lip  trembled  a  little — "that  we  became  engaged." 

Ingram  was  not  wholly  unprepared  for  this,  and  said 
so,  gazing  quietly  before  him,  without  returning  the  gaze 
he  knew  she  had  fixed  on  him.  "But  that  is  long  ago," 
he  added,  "and  you  have  your  life  to  live.  Because  you 
made  one  mistake,  because  one  man  proved  unworthy, 
will  you  spoil  another's  happiness?" 

"Unworthy!"  cried  Lilian,  in  a  voice  that  startled 
him.  "Henry  Everard  was  never  unworthy;  that  is  no 
word  to  apply  to  him.  A  more  spotless  man  never 
breathed." 

"Oh,  Lilian,"  returned  Ingram,  "you  must  indeed  have 
loved  him  if  you  believed  him  innocent  after  the  evidence 
which  condemned  him." 

"I  did  indeed  love  him,"  said  Lilian,  with  quiet 
fei-vor. 

He  was  silent  for  a  time,  half  stunned  by  the  calm  force 
of  Lilian's  words;  then  at  last  he  spoke. 

"This  old  pain  must  be  healed,"  he  said,  falteringly; 
"the  dead  past  must  bury  its  dead." 

"The  past  is  alive  and  young,"  replied  Lilian. 

"Dearest  Lilian,  this  must  not  be,"  said  Ingram,  with 
resolution.  "It  is  wrong  and  morbid  to  go  on  brooding 
over  an  old  sorrow,  and  refusing  comfort.  Innocent  or 
not,  he  is  dead  to  you ;  your  love  can  profit  him  no  more 
than  if  he  were  actually  in  the  grave — " 

"You  are  mistaken,"  interrupted  Lilian;  "we  corre- 
spond. Besides,  the  imprisonment  is  not  for  life," 

"Lilian,  this  is  too  dreadful.  A  convicted  felon  with 
a  twenty  years'  sentence!  Supposing  even  the  best,  and 
he  came  out  at  the  end  of  fifteen  or  sixteen  years ;  you  are 
six-and-twenty  now;  youth  would  be  gone — " 

"But  not  love,  Ingram.     Do  you  know  what  love  is? 


238  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLA.ND. 

It  is  stronger  than  time,  stronger  than  prisons,  stronger 
than  sorrow,  stronger  than  shame;  it  is  stronger,  even 
than  death.  Many  waters  cannot  quench  it,  even  waters 
of  salt  tears;  and  no  floods  of  affliction  can  drown  it. 
Love  is  immortal,  and  knows  nothing  of  age  or  death." 

Ingram  gazed  awe-stricken  upon  the  inspired  face, 
etherealized  by  the  dreamy  moonlight  and  its  own  holy 
passion,  and  listened  to  the  beautiful  voice  as  people  listen 
to  fine  strains  of  organ  music. 

"Lilian,"  he  said  at  last,  "this  cannot  be.  You  must 
not  throw  away  your  life  like  this.  Time  will  soften 
these  feelings." 

"Never,"  she  returned,  firmly.  "Ingram,  you  must 
waste  no  more  time  on  me.  You  are  my  very  dear  friend, 
and  I  have  told  you  the  secret  of  my  heart,  and  you  see 
now  how  impossible  any  such  relations  are  to  me.  Let 
your  past  bury  its  dead,  and  fix  your  heart's  good  affec- 
tions elsewhere.  Come,  let  us  go." 

But  he  would  not  go  on;  he  stopped,  and,  taking  her 
hand,  poured  out  a  torrent  of  remonstrance  and  entreaty. 

"Look,  Ingram,"  she  said  at  last,  "look  northward. 
If  our  sight  could  reach  so  far,  we  should  see  a  river,  a 
dark  river  crowded  with  shipping,  and  beyond  the  river 
stands  a  black  round  mass  of  buildings.  In  that  dark 
mass  there  is  a  cell,  in  which,  perhaps,  this  very  moon  is 
shining  now  through  the  barred  window.  In  that  cell  is 
a  man,  a  gentleman,  a  man  of  unusual  gifts  and  culture. 
He  is  young,  and  everything  has  been  taken  from  him — 
liberty,  fortune,  hope,  ambition,  honor,  friends;  but  not 
love,"  she  added,  her  features  transfigured  as  she  spoke; 
"love  and  innocence  are  still  his.  Ingram,  I  am  all  that 
man  has  on  earth,  and  I  love  him.  Do  you  think 
any  happiness  life  can  offer  would  make  me  desert 
him?" 

"He  would  never  wish  you  to  be  bound  to  him  if  he 
really  cared  for  you." 

"He  does  not  wish  it.  But  think  of  that  solitary 
prisoner,  and  remember  he  is  the  only  man  I  ever  loved 
or  could  love.  That  is  my  last  word." 

They  went  silently  on  their  way  with  full  hearts,  Lil- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  M  AIT  LAND. 


239 


ian's  tearful  glances  always  turned  northward,  and  those 
of  her  companion  bent  downward. 

At  that  moment,  within  the  gloomy  building  beyond 
the  dark  and  crowded  river,  a  strongly  built  man,  with  a 
haggard  face  and  dark  eyes  full  of  intellect,  was  lying  on 
a  hard  couch  in  his  solitary  cell,  on  the  bare  wrhite  wall 
of  which  fell  a  square  patch  of  bright  moonlight,  crossed 
by  the  shadow  of  iron  bars.  He  was  glad  that  the  win- 
dow looked  southward,  and  turned  to  it  even  in 
his  sleep. 

But  he  was  awake  now,  and  thinking  how  the  mellow 
glory  was  falling  on  the  Malbpurne  corn-fields  and  the 
beloved  roof  which  sheltered  Lilian,  and  wondering  if,  per- 
haps, the  same  lustre  which  gilded  his  dim  dreary  cell 
made  a  halo  for  the  adored  face. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Some  few  years  since,  the  fiat  went  forth  for  the  old 
familiar  walls  and  heavy  gates  of  Portsmouth  town  to  be 
levelled  to  the  ground,  that  the  space  which  these  now 
useless  relics  of  the  past  occupied  might  be  covered  with 
buildings  connected  with  the  defences  and  adapted  to  the 
requirements  of  the  post.  Down  went  many  a  fine  old 
elm  beneath  the  axe  and  rope,  and  bit  by  bit  the  ramparts 
disappeared,  and  the  ditches  were  filled  by  the  busy 
hands  of  sunburnt  men,  armed  with  barrow,  pick-ax, 
and  spade. 

One  summer  morning,  while  these  works  were  in  prog- 
ress, the  sun  shone  brightly  in  the  clear  blue  sky,  and 
over  the  quiet  sea  and  still  quieter  harbor;  on  the  troop- 
ships and  mail-clad  men-of-war,  the  busy  steamers  and 
countless  boats  of  every  description  which  filled  these 
peaceful  waters;  on  the  gay  garrison  town,  and  on  the 
beach,  crowded  with  bathers.  Now  and  again  a  bugle 
rang  out,  a  gun  was  fired,  snatches  of  military  music  were 
heard;  on  the  breezy  common,  the  strong  horses  and 


240 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLA.ND. 


heavy  guns  of  mounted  artillery  were  careering  through 
thick  dust-clouds,  whence  the  sparkle  of  arms  and  ac- 
coutrements gleamed  more  effectively  in  the  brilliant  sun- 
light. Portsmouth  streets  were  full  of  life,  and  the  melo- 
dious chimes  of  the  parish  church  floated  sweetly  over 
street,  harbor,  and  bastion  at  every  hour. 

Not  very  far  from  the  Queen's  Bastion  a  party  of  men 
were  at  work  upon  the  partly  levelled  fortifications.  They 
toiled  on  in  the  hot  sunshine  in  a  listless,  unwilling  man- 
ner, each  man  apparently  trying  to  accomplish  as  little 
as  possible.  They  were  an  ugly  set,  for  the  most  part, 
with  low  brows,  heavy  jaws,  and  brutal  looks,  and  their 
close-cropped  hair,  small  black  oilskin  caps,  dingy  yellow 
clothes,  and  clumsy  boots  by  no  means  softened  their 
repulsive  appearance.  Many  of  them  looked  at  the  gay 
carriages  and  brightly  clad  women  and  children  passing 
and  repassing,  while  some  bent  their  scowling  brows  stol- 
idly over  their  spades.  But  the  gazers  did  not  look  up 
with  a  direct  glance;  they  looked  out  of  the  corners 
of  their  eyes,  round  their  noses,  with  all  kinds  of  crooked 
and  tortuors  glances,  like  the  traitors  Dante  saw  in  his 
"Inferno."  Few  of  these  men  could  give  a  level  glance 
or  a  candid  answer;  still  fewer  could  think  a  clear  and 
honest  thought. 

At  intervals,  watching  them,  and  occasionally  giving  a 
sharp,  stern  order,  stood  armed  men,  stalwart  and  blue- 
clad,  with  faces  like  rocks.  Their  guns  were  loaded  with 
ball,  and  their  side-arms  gleaming  in  the  sun,  looked  ter- 
ribly practical.  As  the  convicts  pursued  their  forced 
unwelcome  toil,  with  the  sweat  beading  their  weather- 
stained  brows,  a  slow,  melancholy,  long-drawn  music 
pealed  from  the  distance,  and  grew  more  and  more  dis- 
tinct, while  the  passengers  thickened;  and  a  slowly-mov- 
ing mass  of  scarlet,  interspersed  with  flashes  of  steel  and 
gold  came  into  sight.  The  wail  of  trumpets  rose  into  notes 
of  shriller  anguish,  while  the  heavy  roll  of  the  muffled 
drums  beneath  was  like  the  despairing  voice  of  some 
irrevocable  doom,  and  smote  heavily  upon  the  heart  of 
one  of  the  convicts,  who  recognized  in  the  wailing  music, 
the  reversed  arms,  and  slow  rhythm  of  the  soldiers'  even 
march,  the  solemn  pageant  of  a  military  funeral. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  241 

As  the  procession  drew  nearer,  the  road  became  more 
choked  with  passengers  and  gazers,  and  people  climbed 
on  the  unfenced  works,  some  to  see  the  pageant  better, 
others  to  be  out  of  the  way  till  the  crowd  was  past.  They 
gradually  pressed  closer  and  closer  on  the  convicts,  whose 
dangerous  proximity  they  did  not  heed,  until  the  warders, 
finding  it  impossible  to  keep  them  away,  formed  the  con- 
victs in  line  as  far  away  as  possible,  and  bid  them  stand 
at  attention  while  the  funeral  glided  by  in  its  slow  maj- 
esty. 

The  convict  in  whose  breast  the  sorrowful  music  had 
found  such  a  responsive  echo  was  on  the  outside  of  the 
two-deep  line  nearest  the  road,  and  was  within  a  few 
paces  of  two  ladies  who  had  drawn  aside  to  avoid  the 
crowd.  At  first  sight  there  was  nothing  to  distinguish 
No.  62  from  his  repulsive  comrades,  but  a  closer  gaze 
revealed  an  intellectual  face,  gaunt  and  lined  with  suffer- 
ing; dark  hazel  eyes,  with  a  straight,  thoughtful  glance; 
and  a  genial  mouth,  which  had  lost  its  old  habit  of  smil- 
ing. He  was  of  slighter  build  than  most  of  the  convicts, 
but  strong  and  well-set.  His  name,  which  he  had  not 
heard  for  a  weary  time,  and  which  his  nearest  and  dear- 
est friends  had  long  ceased  to  pronounce,  was  Henry 
Everard. 

Many  an  old  memory  stirred  within  him  as  he  heard 
the  muffled  roll  of  the  drums  and  looking  upon  the  scarlet 
mass  of  silent  men  moving  by;  for  many  of  the  soldiers 
wore  the  number  of  his  brother's  regiment  on  their  uni- 
forms, and  he  thought  of  the  sunny-hearted  Leslie,  whom 
he  had  so  admired  and  loved,  and  with  whom,  when  quite 
a  lad,  he  had  spent  so  many  pleasant  holidays,  all  tuned 
to  the  bright  music  of  trumpet  and  drum,  and  the  quick 
rattle  of  arms  and  rhythmic  tread  of  armed  men. 

He  remembered  his  pride  the  first  time  he  was  admitted 
as  a  grown  man  to  the  mess-table,  and  his  brother's  gal- 
lant presence  and  light-hearted  merriment,  and  the 
respect  paid  him  by  the  raw  lads  who  had  just  joined. 
Of  all  his  brothers,  Leslie  was  nearest  him  in  age,  though 
some  years  his  senior,  and  dearest  to  him  in  affection; 
but  now — where  was  he?  Lost  to  him  with  all  that  the 
great  storm  of  his  life  had  carried  away — lost,  but  not 


242  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

forgotten.  His  eye  sought  him  among  the  officers,  one 
or  two  of  them  he  recognized,  but  Leslie  was  not  there. 
He  might  have  exchanged;  he  was  probably  promoted. 
Who  knew  what  might  have  happened  in  those  years? 

"Yes,"  one  of  the  ladies  said,  "my  husband  knew  him 
well.  They  were  stationed  at  Malta  together.  As  you 
see,  our  regiment  is  following  as  well  as  his  own.  A 
popular  officer,  as  nice  men  generally  are." 

Everard  had  observed  the  second  regiment,  and  at  the 
same  moment  it  had  struck  him  that,  although  the 
charger  walking  with  empty  saddle  behind  the  gun- 
carriage  showed  the  rank  of  the  deceased  officer  to  be  at 
least  that  of  major,  it  was  not  impossible  that  his  brother 
might  be  lying  beneath  the  Union  Jack.  Then  he 
caught  sight  of  the  occupants  of  the  mourning-coaches. 
In  one  he  saw  the  gray  head  of  his  father,  and  his  heart 
misgave  him.  But  he  reflected  that  he  was  Admiral  of 
the  Port.  Might  he  be  there  in  his  official  capacity? 
But  George  was  there  also,  and  his  heart  died  within  him. 

"His  coming  home  was  so  sad,"  continued  one  of  the 
ladies.  "If  he  could  have  lived  till  he  reached  land! 
But  he  died  just  as  they  were  embarking.  His  wound 
was  not  very  serious ;  he  got  fever  upon  it." 

"And  his  friends  were  just  too  late  to  see  him  alive," 
added  the  other  lady.  "Only  one  child,  I  think?  And 
the  poor  wife  was  here  to  receive  him." 

This,  though  in  low  tones,  such  as  ladies  generally  use 
in  a  crowd,  *he  convict's  eager,  strained  ears  caught,  till 
at  last  he  could  bear  it  no  longer;  and,  forgetful  of  the 
strict  prison  discipline,  addressed  the  lady  nearest  him. 

"Pardon  me,  madam,  the  officer's  name?"  he  asked. 

"Major  Everard,"  replied  the  lady,  startled  into  a 
quick  response,  and  drawing  back  with  some  alarm. 

No.  62  had  neither  eyes  nor  ears  for  the  warder's  stern 
admonition.  He  drew  back  into  line,  while  the  heart- 
shaking  roll  of  the  drums  and  the  wail  of  the  trumpets 
grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  the  crowd  moved  away. 
Then  he  resumed  his  barrow  at  the  word  of  command, 
and  wheeled  it  along  the  plank  under  the  hot  sun;  but 
heavy  tears  fell  upon  the  dry  rubbish  of  the  old  fortifica- 
tions, and  ever  and  anon  he  lifted  his  toil-stained  hand 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MA1TLAND.  343 

to  dash  away  the  quick-falling  drops,  while  his  comrades 
rude  jeers  and  foul  pleasantries,  stealthily  muttered  as 
they  were,  reached  his  ears  unheeded. 

"Emily,"  said  the  lady  who  had  replied  to  the  con- 
vict's question,  as  they  resumed  their  road  when  the 
crowd  melted,  "that  man  was  a  gentleman.  Did  you 
notice  his  voice  and  the  way  in  which  he  lifted  his  cap?" 

"Poor  fellow!"  returned  the  other.  "Why  was  he  so 
curious?  He  will  be  punished  for  speaking,  you  know. 
Perhaps  he  had  friends  in  the  regiment." 

"Perhaps.  By  the  way,  I  wonder  how  soon  one  ought 
to  call  on  Mrs.  Everard?  She  really  never  joined  the 
regiment,  you  see;  but  our  husbands  were  intimate 
friends." 

Leslie  dead!  the  gay  and  gallant  Leslie,  the  joyous, 
light-hearted  companion  of  his  boyhood,  his  father's 
favorite  son!  Like  the  slow  strokes  of  a  knell  which 
beat  into  the  agonized  brain  of  a  mourner,  these  mourn- 
ful words — Leslie  dead — kept  dinning  into  Everard's  ears 
all  that  long  day.  He  heard  them  in  every  stroke  of 
pick  and  hammer,  while  he  toiled  on  with  his  barrow; 
in  the  boom  of  guns  at  sea;  in  the  measured  tread  of  the 
convicts  as  they  marched  back  to  dinner;  in  the  few 
brief  orders  given  by  the  warders,  as  the  convicts  stood 
with  arms  uplifted,  while  a  rapid,  skilled  hand  was 
passed  over  every  inch  of  their  bodies  in  search  of  any- 
thing that  might  have  been  received  and  secreted  from 
the  outer  world;  in  the  clang  of  the  prison  bell,  which 
told  that  the  hour  of  respite  was  past,  and  time  come  to 
march  out  to  work  again. 

"And  he  will  never  know  that  I  was  innocent,"  thought 
Everard,  as  he  ate  his  solitary  meal  in  his  cell,  "sein  Brodt 
mit  Thranen  ass." 

Next  to  the  discovery  of  Cyril's  treachery,  he  had  been 
most  cut  to  the  heart  by  receiving  no  message  or  com- 
munication from  Leslie  after  his  conviction.  The  ad- 
miral's stern  though  kindly  nature  he  knew,  and  he  was 
not  surprised  that,  after  the  long  array  of  damning  evi- 
dence against  him.  the  plain,  upright  sailor  should  treat 
him  as  one  dead;  nor  was  he  surprised,  though  deeply 
pained,  that  Keppel  should  do  likewise. 


244 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


His  sisters  and  their  husbands  he  knew  too  well  to 
think  they  would  ever  trouble  themselves  about  a  dis- 
graced kinsman;  but  Leslie,  the  generous,  warm-hearted 
Leslie,  whom  he  so  loved  and  admired,  and  Marion,  the 
darling  of  his  childhood  and  youth — that  they  should 
think  him  guilty,  that  cut  into  the  very  core  of  his  heart. 
And  now  Leslie — unless,  indeed,  the  dead  see  the  things 
of  life  with  clearer  vision  than  they  who  are  still  mingled 
in  its  turmoil — could  never  know  that  he  was  innocent. 
And  he  had  taken  a  wife — left  forlorn  now,  poor  soul! — 
and  there  was  an  orphan  child  of  his  own  blood.  And  so 
the  great  stream  of  life  rolled  on  past  the  desolate  rock 
to  which  he  was  left  chained,  deaf  to  the  thunder  of 
the  on-rushing  waves,  clean  forgotten,  like  a  dead  man 
out  of  mind. 

Like  those  sufferers  whom  Dante  met  in  hell,  and  who 
thought  no  more  of  their  agonies  in  the  bitter  tidings  he 
brought  them  of  their  beloved  on  earth,  No.  62  cared 
little  for  the  punishment  and  loss  of  good  marks  which 
his  breach  of  discipline  cost  him.  It  was  many  days 
before  he  was  again  employed  on  the  fortifications,  for 
that  work  was  eagerly  coveted  and  only  given  to  the  best- 
behaved  men,  both  because  it  afforded  the  unfortunate 
captives  a  welcome  glimpse  of  the  outside  world,  and  also 
because  it  offered  greater  facilities  of  escape  than  any 
other  work,  greater  even  than  those  which  the  dock-yard 
laborers  enjoyed. 

Everard's  next  week,  therefore,  was  spent  within  the 
dreary  confines  of  the  prison,  partly  at  accounts  and  partly 
at  hospital  duty,  in  which  he  was  much  more  useiul  than 
other  men  on  account  of  his  previous  training,  but  duties 
which  he  particularly  abhorred  for  many  reasons;  among 
others,  on  account  of  the  confinement  and  the  leisure  they 
gave  the  mind  for  brooding. 

It  is  difficult  to  realize  the  agony  of  despair  which 
devoured  Everard's  heart  and  confused  his  intellect  in  the 
first  months  of  his  imprisonment.  The  horror  of  Cyril's 
treachery  and  evil-doing,  and  the  shame  of  seeing  all 
human  virtue  and  nonor  in  the  dust,  blunted  his  percep- 
tions of  minor  evils  at  first,  and  the  black  despair  of  feel- 
ing that  there  was  no  God,  or  only  some  cruel  diety  who 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  M  AIT  LAND. 


245 


laughed  at  the  misery  of  innocent  men  and  promoted  evil- 
doers, made  him  like  a  stone. 

The  thought  that  his  life's  purpose  was  wrecked;  that 
he  could  never  pursue  those  grand  scientific  theories 
which  he  was  so  near  bringing  to  perfection ;  that  the  pro- 
ductions of  centuries  of  human  intellect  were  closed  to 
him  forever;  that  the  mental  powers  he  so  delighted  in 
exercising  must  rust,  and  perhaps  be  crushed  beneath  a 
daily  load  of  brute-like  drudgery  and  degrading  hardship; 
that  his  finer  susceptibilities  would  be  blunted  or  effaced 
by  the  daily  contact  with  all  that  was  coarsest  and  foulest 
in  human  nature ;  that  he  would  be  utterly  cut  off  from  all 
that  was  calculated  to  nourish  and  refresh  the  higher  na- 
ture, did  not  come  to  him  till  much  later. 

Like  some  captured  wild  beast,  he  submitted  with 
dogged  unwillingness  to  the  restraints  of  superior  force; 
he  did  his  prison  tasks  with  the  mute  protest  of  the 
blinded  Sampson  among  his  tormentors,  not  caring 
whether  he  pulled  down  the  pillars  of  his  prison-house  or 
not  in  his  savage  strength.  It  was  a  relief  to  him  to  ex- 
haust himself  in  hard  bodily  toil,  and  he  performed  feats 
of  strength  in  his  passion  which  surprised  men  born  and 
trained  to  physical  labor. 

The  chaplain  was  a  man  for  whom  the  human  soul  had 
no  secret  sanctuary  in  which  angels,  much  less  foolish 
and  sinful  men,  might  fear  to  tread,  and  for  whom  the 
highest  mysteries  of  the  divine  nature  were  but  scraps  of 
glib  commonplace;  a  man  who  expected  men  steeped  in 
years  of  vice  and  foulness  to  be  converted  at  once  by  the 
rude  and  sudden  enunciation  of  his  well-worn  formula;  a 
sincere  and  well-meaning  man  withal,  who  looked  upon 
earth  as  an  ante-chamber  to  an  unspeakable  hell,  from 
which  a  very  small  and  numbered  few  might  occasionally 
be  snatched  by  a  sort  of  chance-medley  jugglery,  of  which 
he  and  half  a  dozen  more  alone  knew  the  catch-word  or 
enchanted  pass-word;  the  chaplain  pronounced  him  an 
utter  reprobate. 

"But  have  you  no  care  for  your  poor  soul?"  he  asked 
one  day,  after  wearisome  exhortations  and  endless  ques- 
tioning, to  which  the  prisoner  had  given  no  reply. 

"None  whatever,"  he  replied  at  last. 

He  was  no  favorite  with  the  warders,  whom  he  despised 


346  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

in  his  unjust  resentment  of  their  authority,  or  with  his 
fellow-prisoners,  who  hated  him,  first,  because  he  was  a 
gentleman;  and,  secondly,  because  all  his  looks  and 
words  silently  rebuked  the  viciousness  of  their  own. 
Excessive  labor  and  hopeless  brooding  brought  him  to 
the  hospital  at  last. 

The  prison  doctor  knew  his  history,  and  felt  for  him  as 
for  a  brother  in  trouble,  and,  accustomed  as  he  was  to 
suspect  and  discover  malingering,  saw  at  once  that  No. 
62's  strange  malady  was  no  feigned  one,  but  arose  from 
the  mind  rather  than  the  body.  One  day,  after  many 
rough  but  kindly  efforts  to  rouse  •  him,  he  said  at 
last— 

"If  you  go  on  like  this  you  will  lose  your  reason  before 
long." 

"Reason!"  retorted  the  patient,  with  bitter  scorn. 
"And  what  use  is  reason  to  me?" 

"It  is  of  little  'use  (to  you,  perhaps,"  rejoined  the 
officer,  moving  away,  "but  the  loss  of  it  will  make  you 
a  dangerous  nuisance  to  others." 

This  drastic  observation  had  a  wholesome  effect  upon 
the  prisoner's  stricken  mind.  The  notion  of  sinking  into 
a  dangerous  nuisance  stung  him  into  a  sense  of  the  un- 
manliness  of  giving  himself  up  to  his  miseries;  it  awoke 
in  him  the  bracing  thought  that  some  faint  remnants 
of  duty  remained  even  to  one  so  cut  off  from  his  kind  as 
himself. 

He  thought  that  he  probably  would  become  insane,  his 
medical  knowledge  told  him  how  much  he  had  to  fear  on 
that  score  from  his  terrible  life ;  but  he  was  resolved  that 
at  least  he  would  do  his  best  to  preserve  his  wits.  He 
therefore  took  counsel  with  the  surgeon,  and  during  his 
hospital  leisure  formed  a  scheme  of  intellectual  and  moral 
discipline.  He  forced  himself  to  an  interest  in  the 
repulsive  human  creatures  and  the  dreary  occupations  of 
the  prison.  He  made  a  mental  time-table,  in  which 
certain  days  or  hours  were  to  be  given  to  the  recollection 
of  particular  fields  of  knowledge,  certain  days  to  the 
mental  speaking  of  Latin,  Greek,  etc.  Such  poetry  as 
he  knew  by  heart  he  arranged  for  periodic  mental  repeti- 
tion. He  did  the  same  with  the  plots  of  Aeschylus  and 


THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND 


247 


others  which  he  loved,  and  could  not  obtain  from  the 
prison  library.  He  told  himself  the  story  of  Troy  and 
the  wanderings  of  Ulysses  on  many  a  lonely  night.  He 
traced  the  minutest  recesses  of  his  fellow-prisoners'  anat- 
omy beneath  their  outward  semblance,  mentally  depriving 
them  of  flesh,  muscle,  and  sinew,  as  easily  as  Carlyle's 
imagination  possessed  his  fellows  of  their  garments; 
and  lost  no  opportunity  of  observing  whatever  crossed  his 
limited  field  of  vision. 

It  was  weary  work,  but  it  saved  him.  He  fed  his  starv- 
ing heart  with  memories  of  hours  passed  with  Lilian  and 
others  dear  to  him — memories  as  full  of  pain  as  pleasure, 
particularly  those  which  recalled  the  few  last  vivid  days 
at  Malbourne  before  his  arrest.  Yet  his  heart  was  still 
bitter  with  black  despair. 

Chapel-going  was  a  dreary  thing,  and  little  calculated 
to  edify  one  less  full  of  despairing  doubt  than  Everard. 
It  was  difficult  to  preserve  a  devotional  spirit  amid  that 
crowd  of  foul-mouthed  malefactors,  who  mingled  ribaldry 
and  blasphemy  with  the  responses  they  uttered  and  the 
hymns  they  sang  for  the  sake  of  using  their  voices. 

One  day,  Everard  was  aroused  from  a  mental  review  of 
the  symptoms  in  a  complicated  and  interesting  case  he 
once  conquered,  during  the  sleepy  drone  of  the  Litany,  by 
a  rush  through  the  air  near  him,  followed  by  a  crash. 
He  looked  up  in  time  to  see  the  bent  head  of  the  governor 
struck  by  the  shoe  of  the  prisoner  next  him,  and  the  gov- 
ernor himself  looked  up  in  time  to  receive  the  second 
shoe  full  in  his  face.  This  incident,  typical  of  many 
similar  ones,  seriously  interfered  with  the  morning's  de- 
votion. 

One  drowsy,  warm  autumn  morning,  about  six  months 
after  his  conviction,  Everard  was  more.than  usually  de- 
pressed, and  had  taken  refuge  in  sorrowful  dreams  of 
happier  days.  The  prisoners  were  quieter  than  usual, 
some  dozing,  some  refreshed  by  the  Te  Deum  they  had 
been  loudly  singing,  some  really  touched  by  the  awful 
pathos  of  the  gospel  which  was  being  read,  when  suddenly 
a  phrase  seemed  to  detach  itself  from  the  rest  of  the  nar- 
rative, and,  as  if  uttered  by  a  trumpet  voice,  to  trace 
itself  deeply  upon  Everard's  mind,  waking  him  from  his 


248  THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

melancholy  dream,  and  startling  him  into  a  newer  life. 
The  phrase  consisted  of  those  heart-shaking  words,  "My 
God,  my  God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me?" 

Every  detail  of  the  agony  and  crucifixion  flashed  clear 
upon  his  mind,  strangely  mingled  with  the  feeling  of 
calm  strength  with  which  the  picture  of  Gethsemane  in 
the  study  at  M'albourne  had  inspired  him  in  the  hour  of 
his  extremity.  Tears  rushed  to  his  eyes,  and  he  trem- 
bled. All  those  weary  months  his  heart  had  been  echoing 
that  most  bitter  cry,  without  remembering  that  Christ 
had  been  forced  to  utter  it  in  the  hour  in  which  He  ac- 
complished man's  redemption. 

The  darkness  which  had  come  upon  him  in  the  pris- 
oner's dock  at  the  discovery  of  his  friend's  baseness  rolled 
away,  and  he  recognized  his  own  wrong-doing.  What 
was  Cyril,  after  all,  that  his  faith  in  divine  and  human 
goodness  should  depend  on  him?  Had  he  not  idolized 
the  poor,  weak,  erring  lad,  whom  his  strength  should 
rather  have  pitied?  And  what  was  he  that  he  should 
escape  that  darkness  which  brooded  over  the  very  cross? 
How  many  men  down  the  long  roll  of  the  ages  had  suf- 
lered  bonds  and  treachery,  being  innocent?  Cyril's  cyn- 
ical "She  is  not  the  first,"  flashed  upon  him,  and  he  won- 
dered that  he  should  have  cried  out  so  loud  when  he 
found  himself  enrolled  in  the  vast  army  of  the  world's 
sufferers.  What  claim  had  he  for  exemption  from  earth's 
anguish? 

"There  is  a  God,  and  there  is  good,  and  the  bitterest 
lot  has  comfort,"  he  said  within  himself,  reversing  his 
despairing  utterance  in  the  dock  when  the  conviction  of 
Cyril's  treachery  flashed  upon  him,  as  he  marched  with 
his  fellow-sufferers  into  the  yard,  where  an  hour  of  sun- 
light and  freedom  within  four  walls  was  permitted  them 
on  Sundays. 

The  mid-day  sky  was  transparently  blue  and  suffused 
with  light,  so  that  it  was  a  joy  to  look  upon;  the  sunny 
autumn  air  was  sweet  to  breathe;  and  the  sheets  of  sun- 
shine fell  pleasantly  upon  him,  in  spite  of  the  garb  of 
shame  and  bondage  they  lighted,  and  the  prison  walls 
whose  shadows  limited  them,  and  for  the  first  moment 
since  his  imprisonment  Everard  felt  that  enjoyment  was 


TEE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  249 

possible,  even  to  one  so  stricken  as  himself,  since  Heaven 
smiled  still  upon  him,  captive  though  he  was. 

Just  then  an  oblong  packet  was  put  in  his  hand.  He 
looked  at  it  with  mute  amazement  for  a  moment,  for  he 
had  forgotten  how  it  feels  to  receive  a  letter;  and  then 
he  utter  a  faint  cry,  for  the  handwriting  was  Lilian's. 
/His  first  instinct  was  to  conceal  it  from  the  vulgar  crew 
around  him,  and  he  scarcely  noticed  that  the  sacred 
cover,  closed  by  the  beloved  hand,  had  been  violated  by 
some  stranger's  touch,  according  to  the  stern  prison  rule. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  yard  as  one  whose  steps 
are  on  air,  his  eyes  full  of  soft  fire,  happy  merely  to  hold 
the  treasure  in  his  hand.  He  did  not  open  it  till  he  was 
alone  in  his  cell,  that  narrow  witness  of  so  much  agony, 
which  now  became  a  palace  of  delight. 

It  was  a  letter  such  as  only  the  tenderness  of  a  good 
and  loving  woman  for  one  in  deep  affliction  could  inspire. 
It  had  touched  even  the  official  reader,  accustomed  to 
moving  letters  full  of  ill-spelled  pathos  from  broken- 
hearted and  often  injured  women  to  the  villains  they 
loved,  and  "it  went  into  the  very  marrow  of  Everard's 
being,  and  steeped  him  in  an  atmosphere  of  pure  thought 
and  high-souled  feeling,  to  which  he  had  long  been  a 
stranger,  and  which  refreshed  his  parched  spirit  like 
waters  in  a  desert  of  burning  sand. 

Lilian  briefly  mentioned  Cyril's  terrible  illness  and  her 
own,  and  described  his  state,  which  was  still  one  of 
doubtful  sanity,  requiring  the  most  watchful  care;  there 
were  few  tidings  besides.  Then  she  spoke  of  Henry's 
affliction,  and  bid  him  keep  up  his  heart,  and  pray  con- 
stantly, as  she  did,  that  his  innocence  might  be  made 
clear.  That  the  truth  must  come  out  sooner  or  later,  she 
was  convinced,  referring  him  to  the  great  promises  made 
to  the  just  man  in  the  Scriptures.  In  the  meantime, 
who  could  tell  but  that  some  wise  and  beneficient  end 
was  to  be  fulfilled  by  his  sojourn  in  prison.  The  pur- 
poses of  the  Almighty  were  deep  and  unsearchable,  far 
hidden  from  the  thoughts  of  men ;  but  whatever  treachery 
and  wickedness  had  brought  Everard  to  that  pass  of 
shame  and  misery,  she  bid  him  remember  that  without  the 
divine  permission  he  could  not  be  there. 


250  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

What  if  some  nobler  and  higher  use  than  he  could  ever 
have  wrought  outside  in  the  free  world  were  to  be  his  in 
that  dreary  place?  Who  could  say  what  the  influence  of 
one  solitary  man  of  stainless  life  might  be  in  that  crowd 
of  degraded  yet  still  human  creatures,  or  what  sorrow 
might  be  there  to  comfort?  Let  him  only  remember  that 
the  Almighty  had  placed  him  in  that  dreary  dungeon  as 
surely  as  He  had  placed  the  sovereign  on  the  throne,  the 
priest  at  the  altar,  and  the  bright  blossom  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  take  comfort. 

The  opportune  words  soothed  and  strengthened  Ever- 
ard's  soul,  the  more  so  as  Lilian  did  not  underrate  the 
magnitude  of  the  sacrifice  he  had  been  called  upon  to 
make,  but  spoke  feelingly  of  the  cruel  denials  and  degra- 
dations of  his  lot,  and  of  the  frustration  of  their  common 
hopes,  and  of  the  separation,  which  she  trusted  might 
soon  be  at  an  end. 

She  bid  him  remember  also,  that,  as  a  true  lover,  he 
must  keep  up  his  courage  for  her  sake,  and  hope  in  the 
future,  which  they  might  still  enjoy  together.  Nor  was 
this  noble  letter  wanting  in  those  assurances  of  love  wmcn 
are  so  cordial  to  parted  lovers.  Its  effects  upon  the  lonely 
prisoner  is  difficult  to  imagine,  much  less  describe. 

But  it  was  greatly  due  to  the  hope  and  faith  which  it 
inspired,  that  from  that  day  the  prison  became  to  Everard 
no  longer  a  place  of  darkness  and  despair,  but  a  part  of 
God's  own  world,  over  which  divine  wisdom  and  mercy 
still  smiled,  and  in  which  Q.  man's  soul  might  still  find  its 
necessary  celestial  food. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Everard  found,  to  his  unspeakable  consolation,  that 
he  might  answer  Lilian's  letter,  though  his  answer  would 
have  to  pass  before  the  cold  eyes  of  the  officials;  and 
further,  that  once  in  every  few  months  Lilian  intended  to 
write  to  him. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  25  I 

Thus  from  time  to  time  his  soul  was  braced  and  re- 
freshed by  the  dear  delight  of  communicating  with  the  be- 
ing he  loved  most  in  the  world.  How  he  counted  the 
weeks  and  days  till  the  day  of  days  arrived;  how  he  treas- 
ured phrases  and  sentences  of  those  precious  letters  (which 
he  was,  of  course,  not  allowed  to  preserve)  in  his  memory ; 
and  how  much  thought  he  gave  beforehand  to  the  com- 
position of  replies! 

Many  dark  and  terrible  hours  of  bitter  inward  wrestling 
he  still  had  after  that  blessed  autumn  Sunday,  but  the 
general  tenor  of  his  inward  life  was  brave  and  hopeful. 
He  found  much  to  interest  him  in  his  fellow-prisoners, 
and  here  and  there  flowers  of  tenderness  and  charity 
sprung  up  along  the  barren  prison  path,  and  he  even 
formed  friendships — yes,  warm  and  lasting  friendships — 
with  some  of  the  felons  among  whom  his  lot  was  cast, 
and  enjoyed  the  pure  happiness  of  knowing  that  he  had, 
as  Lilian  predicted,  rescued  more  than  one  fallen  creature 
from  despair,  and  set  his  face  heavenward. 

Among  his  first  friends  was  a  young  fellow  whose  char- 
acter reminded  him  strongly  of  Cyril's,  lovable,  pious, 
well-disposed,  refined,  but  weak  and  selfish.  He  was  of 
gentle  birth,  and  had  held  a  position  of  trust  under  a 
large  banking  firm.  He  married  young  on  a  small  in- 
come; marriage  brought  cares,  and  did  not  diminish  the 
love  of  pleasure.  He  got  into  debt,  gambled  to  extricate 
himself,  and,  of  course,  plunged  further  in.  Ruin  stared 
him  in  the  face,  and  he  embezzled  the  sums  trusted  him, 
meaning,  as  such  crminals  visually  do,  to  pay  all  back  in 
time.  He  left  a  young  wife  and  child  destitute  in  the 
hard  world  while  undergoing  his  seven  years'  imprison- 
ment. He  was  heartbroken,  and  Everard  saw  him  glide 
swiftly  into  the  clutches  of  consumption  and  fade  before 
him. 

Many  a  stroke  of  work  he  did  for  the  poor  weakling, 
and  many  a  thought  of  hope  and  manly  cheerfulness  he 
gave  him.  And  by  the  darkness  in  the  prison  the  day 
the  poor  fellow  was  taken  to  the  infirmary — never  more, 
as  Everard  well  knew,  to  come  out  again — he  knew  how 
much  brightness  his  friendship  had  made  in  that  dreary 
spot.  Everard,  as  a  special  grace,  besought  them  to  give 
him  hospital  duty,  that  he  might  himself  tend  his  dying 


252  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAX  MAITLAND. 

friend,  and  thus  he  was  able  to  soothe  Kis  latest  moments ; 
receive  his  piteous  message  for  his  wife,  whom  Everard 
had  little  hope  of  ever  meeting;  and  close  his  eyes  when 
he  had  no  more  need  of  the  sun. 

As  the  outer  world,  so  was  the  narrow  prison  sphere, 
Everard  found  after  a  while;  men  trusted  and  betrayed, 
loved  and  hated,  schemed  and  envied,  derided  misfortune 
or  helped  it,  as  in  the  world,  only  there  was  a  larger 
percentage  of  rascals  inside  the  prison  than  outside.  His 
friends  were  chiefly  gentlemen,  though  he  sought  the 
friendship  of  the  lowest;  a  man  had  but  to  be  miserable 
to  found  a  claim  upon  his  heart. 

But  never  till  he  dwelt  on  equal  terms  with  the  scum 
of  all  classes  did  he  discover  how  hard  and  inflexible  are 
the  iron  bars  which  divide  class  from  class.  The  gentle- 
men, from  the  fraudulent  director  and  forging  ex-Guards- 
man down  to  the  smallest  clerk  or  shopman  who  could 
handle  a  pen,  hailed  him  as  a  brother,  while  those  who 
belonged  to  what  one  may  call  the  washing  classes,  were 
as  his  twin  brothers;  but  the  hand-laborers,  the  non- 
readers  and  non-washers,  and  the  criminal  class  proper, 
looked  upon  him  as  their  natural  enemy,  and,  beyond 
mere  brutal  elementary  necessities,  discovered  little  on 
which  they  could  exchange  sympathy  and  build  friend- 
ship. 

Everard  sometimes  longed  for  half  a  dozen  villainous 
noblemen,  a  misdoing  minister  or  two,  and  one  or  two 
iniquitous  emperors,  to  make  the  social  world  complete. 
In  that  case,  in  spite  of  the  prison  equality,  there  would 
be  no  fear,  he  well  knew,  that  the  little  society  would 
resolve  itself  into  a  republic;  the  rascal  emperor  would 
have  his  rascal  court,  and  the  minor  rascals  would  fall 
naturally  into  their  places. 

In  the  process  of  the  long  years  a  sort  of  sleep  had 
settled  upon  Everard's  nature.  He  grew  so  inured  to  the 
prison  routine  with  its  numbing  drudgery,  that  he  had 
ceased  to  think  of  freedom  or  to  feel  active  pain  in  his 
never-ceasing  torment.  But  Leslie's  funeral  was  like  the 
stab  of  a  sharp  knife  in  a  numbed  limb;  it  woke  him  to 
full  consciousness  of  his  misery  and  degradation.  He 
had  been  at  Portsmouth  only  for  some  six  months, 
having  been  suddenly  transported  thither,  he  knew  no* 


THE  SILElfCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


253 


why,  and  he  had  but  recently  discovered  that  his  father 
was  port-admiral. 

Daily,  as  he  worked  on  the  dock-yard  extension,  he 
had  passed  the  admiral's  great  house,  with  the  green  in 
front,  and  the  semaphore,  waving  long  arms  to  all  the 
subject  ships  in  harbor,  upon  its  roofs,  and  had  looked  at 
it  with  a  listless,  incurious  eye,  little  dreaming  who  was 
the  chief  figure  in  the  court  which  gathers  round 
the  port-admiral  as  a  tiny  social  king,  till  one  sunny 
noon,  when  going  home  to  dinner  with  his  gang,  he  saw 
the  admiral  descending  the  steps  to  welcome  some  guests, 
and  felt  the  sting  of  his  humiliation  as  he  had  never  done 
before,  not  even  when  one  day,  in  the  midst  of  his  muddy 
work  at  the  extension,  he  had  seen  Keppel  in  full  uni- 
form rowed  ashore  from  his  ship  with  all  the  pomp  and 
circumstance  of  a  naval  captain  on  blue  waters.  Some 
weeks  before  the  funeral,  when  he  was  going  on  to  the 
dock-yard  works  at  early  morning,  the  port-admiral's 
house  was  still  lighted  up,  its  windows  shone  sickly  in 
the  gray  daylight,  a  few  carriages  were  still  drawn  up 
in  a  lessening  line  before  the  principal  door,  and  the  last 
strains  of  a  military  band  were  dying  away. 

The  admiral,  assisted  by  his  daughter-in-law,  the  Hon. 
Mrs.  Keppel  Everard,  had  given  a  great  ball  that  night, 
and  in  one  of  the  carriages,  into  which  the  admiral  was 
leaning,  talking,  No.  62  saw  a  black-coated  man,  whose 
features,  dim  in  the  shadow,  suggested  Cyril's,  and  by 
his  side,  pale  from  the  long  night's  waking,  and  talking 
to  the  old  man,  was  surely,  surely,  his  own  sister  Marion. 

Did  they  know  he  was  there?  or  had  Lilian  purposely 
withheld  the  information  to  spare  them  pain?  He  could 
not  tell.  But  these  circumstances,  together  with  the 
funeral,  conspired  to  make  his  life  intolerable,  and  when 
once  more  he  found  himself  laboring  on  the  old  fortifica- 
tions, he  stepped  along  in  the  gang  with  a  subdued  leap 
in  his  gait,  like  a  caged  beast. 

Long  since  he  had  renounced  the  hope  of  being  freed 
by  Cyril's  conscience.  He  had  never  made  any  attempt 
to  fasten  the  guilt  on  the  real  criminal;  he  shrank  from 
the  complex  misery  it  would  bring  upon  all  dear  to  him; 
and,  moreover,  his  evidence,  though  absolutely  convinc- 
ing to  himself,  was  purely  conjectural.  He  could  bring 


254  TEE  8ILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

not  one  proof,  no  single  witness,  save  the  dumb  cat,  and 
that  evidence,  he  well  knew,  would  suffice  only  to  con- 
vince the  one  person  he  most  wished  to  be  ignorant  of  the 
truth,  Lilian  herself. 

The  day  on  which  he  returned  to  the  fortifications  was 
hot  and  fiercely  bright.  The  town  was  full  of  life.  Gay 
carriages  were  bearing  ladies  in  light  summer  bravery 
to  garden-parties,  afternoon  dances  on  board  ships,  and 
other  revels :  bands  were  playing  on  piers ;  vessels  of  every 
kind,  some  gay  with  flags,  dotted  the  Solent  and  the  calm 
blue  harbor;  colors  had  been  trooped  on  the  common, 
troops  had  marched  past  the  convicts;  the  sweet  chimes 
of  St.  Thomas'  had  rung  a  wedding-peal ;  the  great  guns 
had  thundered  out  royal  salutes  to  the  royal  yacht  as  she 
bore  the  sovereign  over  to  the  green  Wight — there  was 
such  a  rush  and  stir  of  life  as  quite  bewildered  Everard, 
and  made  the  sharpest  contrast  to  his  gray  and  dreary 
prison  life.  To  see  these  freest  of  free  creatures,  the 
street  boys,  sauntering  or  springing  at  will  along  the  hot 
streets,  or,  casting  off  their  dirty  rags,  flinging  them- 
selves into  the  fresh  salt  sea  and  revellingthere  like  young 
Tritons,  or  balanced  on  rails,  criticising  the  passing 
troops,  was  maddening. 

The  day  grew  hotter,  but  pick  and  barrow  had  to  be 
plied  without  respite,  though  the  sweat  poured  from  hot 
brows,  and  one  man  dropped.  Everard  saw  that  it  was 
sunstroke,  and  not  malingering,  as  the  warder  was  in- 
clined to  think,  and  by  his  earnest  representations  got  the 
poor  creature  proper  treatment.  The  brassy  sky  grew 
lurid  purple,  and  heavy  growls  of  thunder  came  rumbling 
from  the  distance;  some  large  drops  of  rain  fell  scantily; 
and  then  suddenly  the  sky  opened  from  horizon  to  horizon 
and  let  down  a  sheet  of  vivid  flame.  Darkness  followed, 
and  a  roar  as  of  all  the  artilery  at  Portsmouth  firing  and 
all  its  magazines  exploding  at  once. 

"Now  or  never,"  thought  Everard,  and,  dropping  his 
barrow  at  the  end  of  his  plank,  he  leaped  straight  ahead 
down  into  a  waste  patch,  over  which  he  sprang  to  the 
road.  He  ran  for  life  and  liberty  with  a  speed  he  did  not 
know  himself  capable  of,  straight  on,  blindly  aiming  at 
the  shore,  tearing  off  his  cap  and  jacket  and  flinging 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  V All  LAND. 


255 


them  widely  in  different  directions,  as  he  went  through 
the  dark  curtain  of  straight  rushing  rain. 

The  warders,  bewildered  by  the  awful  roar  of  the  thun- 
der, blinded  by  the  fierce,  quick  dazzle  of  the  lightning 
and  the  blackness  of  the  all-concealing  rain,  did  not  at 
first  miss  him.  It  was  only  when  he  leaped  the  rislisade 
bounding  the  road,  and  showed  through  the  rain-curtain 
a  bare-headed,  fugitive  figure,  that  the  grim  guardian 
caught  sight  of  him.  Had  he  possessed  the  n£rve  to 
walk  quietly  out  through  the  gate,  he  might  have  got  off 
unobserved  under  cover  of  the  storm. 

Quick  as  thought,  the  warder,  on  seeing  him,  lifted  his 
piece  to  his  shoulder  and  fired.  He  was  a  good  marks- 
man, and  his  face  lighted  up  with  satisfaction  as  he  hit 
his  flying  quarry,  in  spite  of  the  bad  light  and  confusing 
storm. 

Everard  felt  a  sharp,  hot  sting  in  the  thigh,  but  ran 
on,  his  course  marked  with  blood,  which  the  friendly 
storm  quickly  washed  away.  The  darkness  became 
intenser,  the  lightning  more  blinding,  the  downrush 
of  rain  heavier,  and  the  crashing  of  the  thunder  more 
deafening.  Nevertheless,  the  alarm  was  given,  and  the 
pursuers  were  soon  in  full  chase. 

Down  the  now  deserted  highroad  dashed  the  fugitive, 
every  faculty  he  possessed  concentrated  on  flight.  With 
the  blind  instinct  of  the  hunted,  he  rushed  at  the  first 
turning,  through  a  gate,  up  some  steps,  along  to  the 
bastion  which  rose  behind  the  powder  magazines.  He 
darted  along  some  pleasant  green  walk*  under  the  massy 
elms,  till  he  reached  the  first  sentry-box,  in  which  stood 
the  sentry,  a  stalwart  Highlander,  sheltering  from  the 
storm. 

Instead  of  firing  on  him,  as  the  desperate  fugitive  ex- 
pected, the  man  stepped  swiftly  aside,  and  the  panting 
runner,  divining  his  friendly  purpose,  ran  into  the  box. 

The  soldier  swiftly  resumed  his  station,  and  stood  look- 
ing out  with  an  immovable  face  as  before,  while  the 
hunted  convict,  in  the  darkness  in  the  narrow  space  at 
his  side,  stood  face  inward,  close  pressed  to  the  wooden 
wall,  soaked  to  the  skin,  and  panting  in  hard  gasps  that 
were  almost  groans,  yet  sufficiently  master  of  himself  to 
press  a  wad  of  folded  trouser  on  the  bleeding  wound, 


256  fBE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAINLAND. 

which  proved  to  be  only  a  flesh  graze,  but  which  might 
ruin  the  friendly  Scot  by  its  damning  stains  on  the  floor 
of  the  box. 

"Quiet's  the  word,"  said  the  hospitable  sentry,  and 
nothing  more. 

Some  minutes  passed.  Everard's  breathing  became 
less  labored,  and  his  reflections  more  agonized;  the 
thunder-peals  grew  less  tremendous,  while  the  rain  be- 
came heavier.  The  pursuers  had  lost  sight  of  their  prey 
in  the  road  before  he  reached  the  gate,  and  had  beer, 
thrown  off  the  scent,  while  still  sending  searchers  in  at 
directions.  Two  of  these  turned  up  through  the  gate, 
and  one  explored  all  the  nooks  and  crannies  of  the 
crescent-shaped  space  walled  by  the  bastion  which  shel- 
tered the  powder-magazines,  while  the  other  examined 
the  path  itself,  and  interrogated  the  sentry. 

"Past  the  Garrison  Chapel,  toward  High  street;  out  of 
my  range,"  he  said,  coolly;  and  the  pursuer,  calling  his 
comrade,  flew  with  him  along  the  bastion,  not  stopping 
to  inquire  of  the  other  sentries.  "Gone  away,"  observed 
the  Highlander  to  his  quivering  guest,  who  had  feared 
lest  his  light-colored  dress  might  betray  him  behind  the 
sentry,  whose  plaid  and  kilt  and  feather  bonnet  filled  up 
all  of  the  opening  not  darkened  by  his  tall  figure.  "Off 
the  scent.  What  next,  mate?" 

"Heaven  knows!  I  only  hope  I  may  not  ruin  you.  If 
I  get  off  I  will  not  forget  you.  My  friends  are  well  off, 
and  I  am — " 

"Henry  Everard.  Seen  you  often  with  your  gang — 
recognized  at  once." 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  Everard,  not  seeing  his  host's 
handsome  face,  but  feeling  a  vague  stir  of  memory  at  his 
voice;  "who  are  you?" 

"Private  Walker,  i7Qth  Highlanders.  Was  Balfour  of 
Christ-church." 

"Balfour?  What!  come  to  this?  What  did  we  not 
expect  of  you?" 

"Wear  a  better  coat  than  yours.  Manby  rough  on  you 
— hard  lines.  Do  anything  for  you." 

"You  always  were  a  good-hearted  fellow.  And  I  was 
innocent,  Balfour;  1  had  not  the  faintest  grudge  against 


THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


257 


the  poor  fellow.  But  how  did  you  come  to  this?  You 
took  honors." 

"Governor  poor — large  family — small  allowance  at 
Cambridge — debts — Jews.  Called  to  Bar — small  allow- 
ance again — no  briefs — more  debts — more  Jews.  Gov- 
ernor suggests  Australia — all  up  here — didn't  see  boiling 
tallow  in  Australia — if  a  day-laborer,  why  not  in  England7 
Always  liked  the  service — enlisted — Hussar  regiment — 
jolly  life — saw  service — full  sergeant — time  expired.  Sent 
into  Reserve — not  allowed  to  re-enlist — name  of  Smith. 
Tried  civil  life — down  on  my  luck  again — deserted  from 
Reserve — re-enlisted  in  Highlanders — name  of  Walker — 
enlistment  fraudulent — liable  to  imprisonment — foreign 
service  soon — all  right.  Now  for  you." 

Everard  had  to  confess  that  he  did  not  in  the  least 
know  what  to  do  next,  unless  he  could  hide  till  the  dark- 
ness rendered  his  dress  unobservable.  The  moment  he 
was  seen  he  would  be  recognized  anywhere  as  a  convict. 
Various  schemes  were  revolved  between  them  as  rapidly 
as  possible,  for  it  was  essential  that  Everard  should  leave 
the  sentry-box  for  a  better  hiding-place  before  the  rapid 
diminishing  of  the  storm  should  once  more  open  the 
bastion  to  observers. 

The  massive  foliage  of  the  elms  hard  by  might  have 
hidden  a  regiment,  and  Balfour  had  observed  that  the 
branches  attracted  no  suspicion  on  the  part  of  the  pur- 
suers, and,  as  the  forking  of  the  boughs  did  not  begin  till 
many  feet  off  the  ground,  and  the  broad,  smooth  trunk 
offered  not  the  smallest  foothold,  it  was  impossible  for  a 
man  to  climb  into  them  unassisted. 

But  the  sentry  remembered  that  a  stout  rope  had  been 
flung  aside  there  by  some  gunners  busy  cleaning  the 
cannon  on  the  bastion  that  day.  If  Everard  could  find 
this,  and  fling  it  over  a  bough,  he  might  hoist  himself  up. 
If  he  could  not  find  it  the  soldier  offered  to  come  and 
lend  him  his  shoulder — an  action  that  might  attract 
attention  even  in  the  darkness  of  the  storm,  since  that 
part  of  the  bastion  was  commanded  by  many  windows, 
and  that  would,  if  discovered,  bring  certain  ruin  upon 
both  men. 

Everard  darted  swiftly  from  the  box,  and  groped  about 
in  the  wet  grass  till  he  found  the  rope.  This,  in  the  still 


258  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MA1TLAND. 

blinding  rain,  he  threw  over  the  lowest  stout  branch, 
keeping  one  end,  and  fearful  lest  the  other  would  nol: 
descend  within  reach.  After  a  couple  of  casts,  however, 
he  succeeded  in  bringing  the  second  end,  in  which  he  had 
fastened  a  stone,  within  easy  reach,  and  grasping  both, 
and  planting  his  feet  against  the  broad  bole,  slippery  with 
wet,  managed  to  struggle  up  with  moderate  speed.  He 
was  half-way  up,  and  pausing  a  moment  to  steady  himself 
and  look  round,  saw  to  his  infinite  horror  that  he  was 
exactly  opposite  to,  and  in  full  view  and  firing  range  of, 
the  sentry  on  the  opposite  end  of  the  bastion,  which  was 
roughly  crescent-shaped. 

Outlined  as  he  was,  and  almost  stationary  against  the 
tree-trunk,  he  presented  the  easiest  target  for  a  moderate 
range  shot.  The  man  was  in  no  hurry  for  his  easy  prey, 
he  lifted  his  musket  slowly,  while  Everard  paused,  trans- 
fixed with  horror.  The  sentry  seemed  as  if  waiting  for 
him  to  rise  into  a  still  better  position  for  a  shot.  Everard 
slipped  down,  expecting  to  hear  a  ball  sing  over  his  head, 
if  not  into  his  body ;  but  there  was  no  report,  and  he  stood 
irresolute  a  moment,  seeking  where  to  fly. 

A  signal  of  warning  and  haste  from  Balfour  made  him 
once  more  grasp  his  rope  in  desperation,  and  climb 
through  the  peril  of  the  sentry's  aim.  A  flash  of  light- 
ning showed  him  his  foe  standing  as  before,  with  his 
musket  planted  firmly  in  front  of  him ;  he  was  supporting 
himself  placidly  with  both  hands  clasped  upon  it,  and  his 
head  bent  slightly  down,  almost  as  if  he  had  fallen  asleep 
at  his  post. 

But  Everard  knew  that  the  most  careless  sentries  do 
not  fall  asleep  in  the  process  of  aiming  at  fugitive  pris- 
oners, and  he  pressed  on  till  he  reached  the  first  fork, 
where  he  rested,  wondering  why  no  shot  had  been  fired. 
The  fact  was,  the  rain  was  beating  straight  into  the  man's 
face,  and  he  had  much  ado  to  see  a  yard  before  him,  and 
had  raised  his  musket  merely  to  see  if  the  breech  was 
properly  shielded  from  the  wet  Everard,  however,  hoist- 
ing up  his  rope,  climbed  higher  into  his  green  fortress, 
expecting  nothing  less  than  to  have  it  soon  riddled  in  all 
directions  by  a  fusillade  from  below.  To  his  surprise  he 
heard  Balfour's  signal  of  safety,  and  gladly  responded  to 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAlTLAND.  2  c.o 

it;  for  they  had  framed  a  little  code  of  signals  before 
parting. 

It  was  comparative  luxury  to  the  weary,  wounded  man 
to  sit  astride  a  branch,  with  his  back  against  the  trunk, 
and  the  foot  of  the  wounded  limb  supported  upon  a  lower 
bough,  and  he  gave  a  deep  sigh  of  relief,  and  reflected 
that  he  was  at  last,  after  all  those  dreary  years  of  bond- 
age, free.  Balfour  could  do  nothing  till  he  was  off  guard, 
ivhich  would  happen  in  another  half  hour.  Nothing 
could  be  done  during  the  next  sentry's  guard,  because  it 
would  be  impossible  to  get  at  him  and  see  how  far  he 
could  be  trusted;  but  if  any  subsequent  sentry  proved 
manageable,  and  if  Balfour  could  get  a  pass  for  the  night, 
lie  might  bring  him  some  sort  of  clothing,  and  then, 
tinder  favorable  circumstances,  he  might  get  off.  And 
Ihen? 

The  storm  abated,  the  last  low  mutterings  of  thunder 
died  away  in  the  distance,  the  rain  ceased,  and  the  even- 
ing sun  shone  out  with  golden  clearness.  Some  of  the 
long,  slanting  beams  pierced  the  green  roof  of  his  airy 
prison,  and  fell  hopefully  upon  the  fugitive's  face.  He 
heard  the  sentry's  measured  tread  below,  and  then  the 
(hange  of  guard;  the  hum  of  the  town,  and  the  noises 
from  the  vessels  at  anchor,  came,  mingled  with  distant 
bugle-calls,  to  his  lonely  tower.  The  light  faded,  the 
tiun  went  down  in  glory,  the  gun  on  the  bastion  fired  the 
sunset,  the  parish  church  chimed  half-past  eight,  the 
sounds  from  sea  and  shore  came  more  distinct  on  the 
quieting  night  air,  and  he  heard  the  band  of  a  Highland 
regiment  begin  its  skirl  of  pipes  on  the  Clarence  pier. 
It  was  probably  Balfour's  regiment. 

Poor  Balfour!  He  fell  to  thinking  of  his  unfortunate 
lot,  much  as  he  had  to  occupy  his  thoughts  with  regard 
<;o  his  own  immediate  safety.  Only  that  week,  Bal- 
four's father,  General  Sir  Ronald  Balfour,  K.  C.  B.,  as 
general  commanding  at  Portsmouth,  had  reviewed  the 
troops,  Balfour  himself  being  more  than  once  face  to  face 
with  his  father.  This  he  told  Everard,  adding  that  on  a 
recent  foreign  royal  visit  to  Portsmouth,  the  I79th  had 
formed  a  guard  of  honor  to  the  royal  guests,  and  that 
Admiral  Everard  had  walked  down  the  lane  of  which  he 


26o  75Z  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND 

made  a  part,  in  the  wake  of  the  royal  party,  chancing  to 
come  to  a  full  stop  just  on  his  level. 

Balfour,  the  star  of  the  debating  society,  the  man 
whom  they  had  hoped  to  see  on  the  Woolsack;  what 
a  fall  was  here!  "Unlucky  beggar!"  was  the  philo- 
sophic Highlander's  sole  comment  on  his  ill-starred  des- 
tiny. A  good  fellow  and  a  man  without  a  vice. 

The  air  was  chill  after  sunset.  Everard,  motionless  on 
his  airy  perch,  bareheaded,  and  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  was 
wet  to  the  skin,  and  shivered  with  a  double  chill  after 
the  heat  of  his  hard  labor  in  the  sultry  afternoon.  His 
wound  ached  till  he  began  to  fear  it  might  lame  him  and 
his  hunger  waxed  keener  as  the  night  deepened  and  the 
cold  increased.  The  stars  came  out  and  looked  at  him 
with  their  friendly,  quieting  gaze.  He  could  see  the 
sparkle  of  lights  in  the  water  and  in  the  town;  he  could 
make  out  the  lights  of  the  admiral's  signal-station  on  his 
housetop  above  the  dock-yard. 

Which  man-of-war  was  KeppeFs,  he  wondered,  know- 
ing nothing  even  of  the  outside  world  that  was  so  near 
him.  The  chimes  of  the  parish  church  told  him  the  hours, 
and  he  knew  when  the  guard  would  be  relieved. 

It  was  a  weary  night;  its  minutes  lagged  by  leaden- 
paced.  He  thought  their  long  procession  would  never 
end;  and  yet  there  was  a  strange,  delicious  enchantment 
in  the  feeling  that  he  had  at  last  broken  the  bars  of  that 
iron  prison,  with  its  terrible  bondage  of  unending  rou- 
tine and  drudgery.  The  thick  foliage  of  the  elm  still 
held  the  wet,  which  every  passing  breath  of  the  night 
wind  shook  on  the  grass  below  in  a  miniature  shower. 
The  moon  rose  and  wandered  in  pale  majesty  across  the 
sweet  blue  sky — such  a  free,  broad  night  sky  as  had  not 
blessed  his  eyes  for  years  and  years;  its  beams  hung  his 
green  fortress  roof  with  pearls  and  trembling  diamonds, 
falling  ever  and  anon  to  the  earth.  Sentinel  after  sen- 
tinel came  on  guard  below,  but  there  was  no  friendly 
signal  from  beneath.  He  had  descended  to 'the  lowest 
bough  to  catch  the  lightest  sound.  The  watch  was  pass- 
ing; the  early  dawn  would  shine  on  the  next  watch,  and, 
if  help  did  not  come  before  the  sunrise,  he  would  have  to 
wait  till  the  following  night,  wet,  starved,  suffering  as  he- 
was.  But  no;  there  is  the  welcome  signal  at  last. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  261 

Quickly  he  gave  the  answering  signal;  and,  bending, 
down  in  the  darkness,  heard  the  following  sentence  abovt? 
the  sound  of  the  sentinel's  backward  and  forward  steps: 
"Sentry  blind  and  deaf — sneak  off  to  right  Catch." 

Something  flew  up  to  him  in  the  dark,  and,  after  two 
misses,  he  caught  it;  and  then,  rising  to  where  a  rift  in 
the  foliage  let  in  a  shaft  of  rays  from  the  waning  moon, 
unfastened  his  bundle,  which  was  roughly  tied  with 
string. 

A  battered  hat,  very  large,  so  that  it  would  hide  the 
close-cropped  head;  a  boatman's  thick  blue  jersey;  and  a 
pair  of  wide  trousers,  worn  and  stained,  with  a  belt  to 
fasten  them;  also  some  second-hand  boots — such  was  the 
simple  but  sufficient  wardrobe  which  Balfour  had  pur- 
chased with  his  slender  means,  and  brought  him  at  deadly 
risk. 

Everard  was  able  to  discard  every  rag  of  the  tell-tale 
prison  garb,  stamped  all  over  as  it  was  with  the  broad 
arrow,  and,  securing  the  dangerous  garments  to  a  branch 
of  the  tree,  invested  himself  in  the  contents  of  the  bundle 
— an  occupation  that  took  so  long,  owing  to  the  inconven- 
ience of  his  lofty  dressing  room,  that  the  eastern  sky  was 
brightening  and  the  friendly  sentinel's  watch  almost  ex- 
pired by  the  time  he  was  ready  to  descend  from  his  perch, 
which  he  did  noiselessly  and  apparently  unobserved  by 
the  sentry. 

Then,  slowly  and  painfully — for  his  limbs  were  cramped 
and  chilled,  and  his  wound  ached — he  glided  behind  the 
dark  boles  till  he  reached  the  steps,  and,  descending  them, 
found  to  his  dismay  that  the  gate  was  locked. 


CHAPTER  V. 

There  is  almost  always  some  small  but  vitally  impor- 
tant hitch  in  the  best-laid  human  plans,  and  the  hitch 
in  Balfour's  arrangement  was  that  he  forgot  the  nightly 
locking  of  the  gate  leading  on  to  the  bastion.  He  had 


262  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

approached  the  tree  from  the  other  side,  passing  the  sen- 
tries, being  challenged  by  them,  and  giving  the  word  in 
reply. 

Everard  knew  the  bastion,  and  had  had  many  a  pleas- 
ant stroll  there  in  old  days,  when  stopping  with  his 
father  when  in  port,  and  he  knew  well  that  his  only 
course  was  now  to  climb  the  gate,  which  he  could  not  do 
without  noise,  and  which  was  in  no  case  an  easy  feat,  the 
plain  board  of  which  the  gate  was  made  being  high,  and 
the  top  thicky  studded  with  those  dreadful  crooked  nails, 
which  look  like  alphabets  gone  wrong,  and  do  dreadful 
damage  to  both  hands  and  clothing. 

Fortunately,  the  moon  had  set,  the  sun  was  not  yet 
risen,  and  the  darkness  favored  him — a  darkness  which 
every  moment  threatened  to  dissipate.  He  struggled  up 
with  as  little  sound  as  possible,  with  set  teeth  and  a 
beating  heart,  lacerating  his  hands  cruelly.  Then, 
having  gained  the  top — not  without  some  rents  in 
his  scanty  clothing — he  grasped  the  nail  studded  ridg'? 
and  sprang  down.  Alas!  not  to  the  ground,  for  one  of 
the  crooked  nails  caught  in  the  back  part  of  the  wide 
trousers,  and,  with  a  rending  of  cloth  and  a  knocking  of 
his  feet  against  the  boards,  he  found  himself  arrested 
midway,  and  suspended  by  the  waist  against  the  gate, 
like  a  mole  on  a  keeper's  paling. 

Had  he  been  caught  in  front,  he  might  have  raised 
himself  and  somehow  torn  himself  free;  but  bein£ 
hooked  thus  in  the  rear,  he  was  almost  helpless,  and  his 
slightest  effort  to  free  himself  brought  the  heels  of  his 
boots  knocking  loudly  against  the  gate  as  if  to 
obtain  admittance,  which  was  the  last  thing  he  wanted. 
Meantime,  the  minutes  flew  on,  the  darkness  was  break- 
ing fast;  before  long  the  sun  would  rise,  and  disclose 
him  hung  thus  helplessly  on  his  nail  to  the  earliest 
passer-by,  who  would  probably  be  a  policeman. 

A  beautiful  faint  flush  of  red-rose  suddenly  shot  up 
over  the  eastern  sky,  and  the  brown  shadows  lessened 
around  him.  He  heard  footsteps  echoing  through  the 
dewy  stillness,  and  struggled  with  blind  desperation. 
The  rose-red  turned  deep  glowing  orange,  objects  became 
more  and  more  distinct  before  him,  the  street  lamps  sick- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  263 

ened,  a  soft  orange  ray  shot  straight  from  the  sea  across 
the  common,  through  the  leaves  of  the  tree  shadowing 
the  gate,  on  to  the  fugitive's  cheek.  At  the  same  instant 
he  heard  the  boom  of  the  sunrise  guns;  it  was  day. 

The  footsteps  approached  nearer  and  nearer;  on  the 
bastion  he  heard  the  change  of  watch.  He  felt  thai  all 
was  lost,  and  yet,  in  his  mental  tension,  his  chief  con- 
sciousness was  of  the  awful  beauty  of  the  dawn,  the  dewy 
quiet  and  freshness  brooding  over  the  great  town,  and — 
strange  contrast! — the  grotesque  absurdity  of  his  situa- 
tion. He  heard  the  lively  twitter  of  the  birds  waking  in 
the  treets,  and  admired  the  soft  radiance  of  the  ruddy 
beams  on  the  sleeping  town;  and  then  something  gave 
way,  and  he  found  himself  full  length  on  the  pavement. 

The  echoing  footsteps  had  as  yet  brought  no  figure 
round  the  corner,  and  Everard  welcomed  the  hard  salute 
of  the  paving-stones  as  the  first  greeting  of  freedom,  and, 
quickly  picking  himself  up,  he  fell  into  the  slow,  slouch- 
ing walks  he  had  observed  in  tramps,  and  moved  on, 
adjusting  his  disordered  garments  as  best  he  might. 
The  footsteps  proved  indeed  to  be  those  of  a  policeman, 
whose  eyes  were  dazzled  \vith  the  level  sunbeams  which 
he  faced,  and  who  gave  him  a  dissatisfied  but  not  suspi- 
cious glance  and  passed  on. 

Everard  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  limped  on,  trying  to 
disguise  the  lameness  of  the  wounded  limb,  which  he 
feared  might  betray  him,  and  thrust  his  torn  hands  into 
the  pockets  of  the  trousers  which  had  so  nearly  ruined 
him.  His  surprise  and  joy  were  great  on  touching  with 
his  left  hand  a  substance  which  proved  to  be  bread  and 
cheese,  which  he  instantly  devoured,  and  with  his  right  a 
few  pence,  and,  what  moved  him  to  tears  of  gratitude  for 
Balfour's  thankful  kindness,  a  short  brier-wood  pipe, 
well-seasoned,  and  doubtless  the  good  fellow's  own,  a 
screw  of  cheap  tobacco  and  some  matches.  He  had  not 
touched  tobacco  for  nine  years. 

A  drinking-fountain  supplied  him  with  the  draught  of 
water  which  his  fevered  throat  and  parched  lips  craved; 
it  also  enabled  him  to  wash  off  some  of  the  blood  and 
dirt  from  his  torn  hand.  And  then,  dragging  his  stiff 
ir.nd  wounded  limb  slowly  along,  and  eating  his  stale 


264  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

bread  and  cheese  in  the  sweet  sunshine,  he  made  his 
morning  orisons  in  the  dewy  quiet  of  the  yet  unawak- 
ened  town,  and  felt  a  glow  of  intense  gratitude,  which 
increased  as  the  food  and  water  strengthened  him,  and 
exercise  warmed  his  chill  and  stiffened  frame. 

He  was  glad  to  see  the  houses  open  one  by  one,  and 
the  streets  begin  to  fill;  he  thought  he  should  attract  less 
attention  among  numbers.  Tie  passed  groups  of  free 
laborers  hurrying  to  the  dock-yards  to  work,  and  it  gave 
him  an  eerie  shudder  to  think  that  some  of  them,  whose 
faces  he  knew,  might  recognize  him.  His  terror 
increased  when  he  saw  a  light  on  a  workman's  face — a 
face  he  knew  well,  for  the  man  had  slipped  over  the  side 
of  the  dock  one  morning,  and  was  in  imminent  danger  of 
being  jammed  by  some  floating  timber,  when  Everard 
had  promptly  sprung  after  him,  regardless  of  prison  dis- 
cipline, and  held  him  up,  for  he  could  not  swim,  till  a 
rope  was  brought,  and  the  two  men  were  hauled  out, 
bruised  but  otherwise  uninjured.  \ 

The  man  stopped;  Everard  went  straight  on,  not 
appearing  to  see  him,  and,  after  a  few  seconds,  to  his 
dismay,  heard  footsteps  running  after  him.  He  dared 
not  quicken  his  pace,  lest  he  should  attract  attention, 
but  the  food  he  was  eating  stuck  in  his  throat,  and  his 
face  paled.  His  pursuer  gained  his  side,  and,  seizing 
his  hand,  pressed  some  pence  into  it,  saying  in  a  low 
tone,  "Mum's  the  word,  mate!  All  the  ready  I've  got. 
Simon  Jones,  80  King  street,  for  help.  Better  not 
stop." 

Then  he  turned  and  resumed  his  road,  telling  his  com- 
panions something  about  a  chum  of  his  down  in  his 
luck,  and  Everard  slouched  on  with  a  lightened  heart, 
and  increased  gratitude  for  the  pence.  He  had  now 
nearly  two  shillings  in  his  pockets,  and  when  he  had 
lighted  Balfour's  brier-wood  he  felt  like  a  king.  The 
last  time  he  handled  a  coin  was  when  he  gave  pence 
to  a  blind  man,  sitting  by  the  police-station  at  Oldport, 
just  before  his  arrest.  He  bought  needle  and  thread  to 
repair  the  tremendous  fissure  in  the  unlucky  garments 
which  had  played  him  so  ill  a  trick,  and  in  two  hours' 
t*me  found  himself  well  clear  of  the  town  and  suburbs. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  265 

Presently  he  found  a  shed  used  for  sheltering  cattle,  but 
now  empty.  This  he  entered,  and,  having  with  some 
difficulty  drawn  the  chief  rents  in  his  clothes  together, 
washed  his  wound  in  a  trough  placed  for  some  cattle 
to  drink  from,  and  bandaged  that  and  the  worst  hurts  in 
his  hand  with  the  handkerchief  in  which  the  bread  and 
cheese  was  wrapped,  lay  down  on  some  litter  behind  a 
turnip-cutting  machine,  and  in  a  moment  was  fast  asleep, 
utterly  oblivious  of  prisons,  wounds  and  hunger. 

When  he  awoke,  with  the  vague  consciousness  of 
change  which  heralds  the  first  working  after  a  decisive 
event  in  life,  he  felt  a  strangely  unprotected  sensation  on 
looking  up  at  the  blue  sky,  which  showed  through  the 
gaps  in  the  slightly  thatched  roof,  and  seeing  a  green 
pasture,  with  cattle  grazing  upon  it,  spread  broad  and 
sunny  before  him  on  the  unwalled  side  of  the  shed,  in- 
stead of  the  close  white  walls  of  his  cell.  His  sleep  had 
been  so  profound  and  refreshing  that  it  took  him  some 
seconds  to  recall  the  events  which  preceded  it.  Hunger 
and  the  sun  told  him  it  was  late  afternoon ;  prudence  bid 
him  rest  the  wounded  leg,  but  hunger  counselled  him  to 
go  out  and  buy  food  first. 

A  short  walk  along  the  dusty  high-road  brought  him 
to  a  little  general  shop  at  the  entrance  to  a  village,  where 
he  bought  a  penny  loaf  and  a  little  cheese,  and  was  con- 
founded by  the  affability  of  the  mistress  of  the  shop,  a 
tidy  young  woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms. 

"Warm  walking,"  she  observed,  as  she  weighed  his 
cheese. 

"It  is  warm,"  he  faltered,  with  a  strange  embarrass- 
ment ;  for  he  had  been  addressed  by  no  woman  since  the 
bitter  hour  of  his  parting  from  Lilian,  nine  years  ago, 
and  had  a  confused  idea  that  he  must  be  very  respectful 
to  every  one  in  virtue  of  his  low  position. 

"Tramped  far?"  she  added,  wrapping  the  morsel  of 
cheese  in  paper. 

"No,  ma'am,  only  from  Portsmouth,"  he  replied;  and, 
taking  his  purchase  with  a  "Thank  you"  and  a  touch  of 
his  hat,  he  was  limping  out,  when  the  woman  called  him 
back.  "Seems  to  me  you've  been  ill,  and  you've  seen 


266  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

better  days  by  the  sound  of  your  tongue,"  she  said. 
"What  have  you  eat  to-day?" 

"A  good  breakfast  of  bread  and  cheese." 

"And  you  just  out  of  hospital,  as  I  can  see!  Poor 
chap !  and  your  hand  bad,  too.  Come  into  my  room  here, 
do.  Here's  some  bacon  and  eggs  my  master  left  from 
dinner;  I'll  warm  it  up  in  a  minute.  We  sha'n't  miss  it, 
and  it  will  do  you  a  sight  more  good  than  that  poor  bit 
you  bought.  Come  in,  do,  the  children  and  me  is  just 
getting  our  teas." 

Everard's  instinctive  courtesy  bade  him  accept  this 
kind  offer,  and  he  got  a  cup  of  hot  tea  and  a  good  meal 
of  warm  food,  and,  what  was  better  than  all,  the  refresh- 
ing sense  of  human  kindness,  and  departed  with  grati- 
tude, having  won  golden  opinions  from  his  hostess  by 
his  quiet  civility  and  wise  observations  upon  the  teething 
of  her  infant. 

He  was  grateful  also  for  the  hint  about  the  hospital 
and  the  refinement  of  his  speech,  and  resolved  to  adopt 
the  broad  Hampshire  drawl,  familiar  to  him  from  baby- 
hood. 

He  trudged  on  with  a  better  heart,  bent  chiefly  on 
finding  a  refuge  for  the  night.  As  he  approached  a 
pretty  cottage,  with  a  lawn  before  it  and  a  garden  behind, 
a  pony-carriage  passed  him  and  drew  up  before  the  gate. 
It  was  driven  by  a  lady  in  mourning,  who  looked  inquir- 
ingly around  before  alighting.  Everard  ran  up,  touching 
his  hat,  and  held  the  pony's  head,  while  she  got  out, 
entered  the  wicket  gate,  rang  the  bell,  and  was  admitted 
by  a  smart  maid. 

Here  was  luck  at  the  very  beginning.  The  lady,  whose 
face  he  had  not  observed  in  the  hurry,  but  whose  dress 
and  appearance  as  she  walked  up  to  the  door  he  had  am- 
ple leisure  to  study,  was  good  for  at  least  a  shilling, 
and  would  ask  him  no  questions;  he  might  soon  hope  to 
buy  a  shirt.  He  patted  the  pony's  sleek  neck  and 
knocked  off  a  fly  or  two,  and  wished  he  knew  of  a  high- 
road studded  with  ponies  waiting  to  be  held. 

Then  he  looked  at  the  two  pretty  children  the  lady  had 
left  in  her  carriage,  and  their  sweet  faces  filled  him  with 
a  sense  of  old  familiar  home-happiness,  and  his  memor> 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  267 

called  up  a  pleasant  summer  scene  on  the  lawn  at  Mai- 
bourne — of  the  twins,  with  little  Marion  between  them, 
pretending  to  chase  the  big  boy,  Harry,  who  fled  back- 
ward as  they  advanced.  He  remembered  the  twins' 
black  dresses,  which  they  wore  for  one  of  the  brothers 
they  lost  in  infancy,  and  the  scent  of  the  lime-blossom 
overhead. 

The  children  in  the  pony-carriage  were  prattling  mer- 
rily together,  and  making  comments  on  all  they  saw, 
himself  not  excepted.  He  had  incautiously  taken  off  his 
hot  felt  hat  for  a  moment  to  cool  himself  as  he  stood  by 
the  pony,  and  this  action  greatly  interested  the  younger 
child,  a  blue-eyed  boy. 

"Why  is  all  'oo  hair  cut  off?"  he  asked,  earnestly  re- 
garding him.  "Has  'oo  been  to  pizzen?" 

"I  have  been  ill,  sir,  and  my  head  was  shaved,"  replied 
Everard,  coloring  with  dismay,  and  quickly  jamming  his 
hat  well  on,  while  the  little  maiden  rebuked  her  brother 
for  his  rudeness. 

"He  did  not  mean  to  be  rude,"  she  explained;  but  we 
are  staying  with  our  grandpa  in  the  dock-yard,  and 
Ernest  sees  the  convicts  go  by  every  day,  so  we  play  at 
convicts,  and  he  cut  his  little  brothers  hair  off  to  make 
it  seem  more  real.  Wasn't  it  naughty?" 

"Very  naughty,"  replied  Everard,  charmed  with  the 
music  of  the  sweet  little  refined  voices,  a  music  he  had 
not  heard  so  long.  The  little  girl  reminded  him  of  his 
old  pet,  Winnie. 

"Why  didn't  'oo  die?"  continued  the  boy.  "Mine 
uncle  did  die.  The  soldiers  put  him  on  the  big  gun, 
and  shooted  him  when  he  was  in  the  ground,  and  the 
music  played,  and  mamma  kied." 

"Hush,  Ernie!  I'm  glad  you  got  well,  poor  man!" 
said  the  little  maid,  demurely. 

"When  I  grow  up,"  proceeded  the  boy,  "I  sail  be  a 
admiral,  like  grandpa,  and  have  sips  and  guns  and  a 
sword." 

Everard  congratulated  him  on  his  choice;  but  his  little 
sister  said  he  had  better  be  a  clergyman  like  their  father, 
and  make  people  good  and  preach. 

"I  don't  want  to  peach,"  said  the  little  man,  pathet- 


268  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

ically.     "I  want  to  be  a  admiral,  and  have  sips  and  guns 
and  swords." 

Then  the  door  opened,  and  the  lady  came  out,  accom 
panied  by  another  lady  in  a  widow's  cap,  who  nodded  to 
the  children  and  smiled,  though  she  had  just  been  weep- 
ing, and  went  in;  and  Everard,  with  an  intelligence 
sharpened  almost  to  agony  by  the  children's  conversation, 
looked  searchingly  from  under  the  hat  he  had  slouched 
|over  his  brows  at  the  dark-haired,  dark-eyed  lady,  as  she 
returned  to  her  carriage,  replacing  the  veil,  which  she 
had  raised  during  her  visit,  evidently  a  sorrowful  one, 
since  she  too  had  been  shedding  tears. 
'  Everard's  heart  throbbed  almost  to  bursting  as  he  met 
the  dark  eyes,  once  so  full  of  mirth  and  life,  and  observed 
the  familiar  carriage  of  the  still  slender  figure.  It  was 
Marion,  beyond  all  doubt;  Marion,  altered  indeed,  but 
still  Marion,  the  favorite  sister,  the  darling  of  his  youth — 
that  traitor's  wife,  as  he  muttered  between  his  fiercely 
ground  teeth.  Twice  nine  years  might  have  passed  over 
her  head,  to  judge  by  her  looks.  The  joyous  elasticity 
was  gone  from  her  carriage;  she  was  pale,  and  there  were 
lines  of  settled  care  on  the  once-sparkling  face. 

She  smiled  on  her  children,  a  tender,  sweet  smile,  but 
with  no  happiness  in  it,  and  hoped  they  had  been  good, 
as  she  got  into  the  carriage  and  took  the  reins,  not  observ- 
ing the  man  who  stood  by  the  pony  with  his  breath  com- 
ing gaspingly,  and  his  heart  torn  by  a  medley  of  passion- 
ate emotions.  He  stepped  back  when  she  had  taken  the 
reins  and  whip,  and  touched  his  hat  as  she  drove  on,  and 
then  stopped  on  catching  sight  of  him,  and  drew  out  her 
purse,  whence  she  took  a  shilling,  which  she  gave  him. 
He  touched  his  hat  once  more,  and  was  again  stepping 
back,  when  she  beckoned  him  forward  and  addressed 
him. 

"Are  you  out  of  work?"  she  asked;  and  he  replied 
slowly  in  the  affirmative. 

"That  is  strange,"  she  continued,  with  a  little  severity. 
"A  man  of  your  age  and  strength  ought  to  have  no  diffi- 
culty in  getting  work  just  now.  The  farmers  want  men, 
and  the  dock-yards  is  taking  in  extra  hands  for  the  exten- 
sion works.  I  hope  it  is  not  drink?" 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

"It  is  nine  years  since  I  touched  any  drink,"  he  replied, 
lor  the  second  time  moved  to  discover  himself  and  ask 
for  the  money  indispensable  to  his  safety,  and  for  the 
second  time  restrained  by  the  thought  that  she  was  the 
wife  of  that  traitor,  whose  money  would  have  been  like 
fire  to  the  touch. 

"He  was  ill,  and  they  did  cut  off  him  hair,"  explained 
the  boy. 

"You  think  of  nothing  but  cutting  hair,  darling," 
said  Marion,  smiling  the  tender,  sad  smile  again;  "I  am 
sorry  for  that,"  she  added,  addressing  Everard  kindly. 
"And  you  are  looking  for  work?  Have  you  been  long 
out  of  the  hospital?  Where  are  your  friends?  What! 
no  friends?  This  is  very  sad.  Try  the  dock-yard.  I 
will  speak  for  you  to  the  officials.  My  father  is  port- 
admiral.  But  I  am  going  home  to-morrow;  my  husband 
preaches  at  home  on  Sunday.  Or,  stay !  they  want  a  man 
at  once  to  mow  the  lawn  at  this  cottage ;  their  gardener  is 
ill.  Can  you  mow?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Say  Mrs.  Maitland  recommends  you.  I  am  sure  I 
may  recommend  you.  You  look  honest  and  steady.  I 
wish  I  could  help  you,  but  I  have  so  little  time  now. 
Can  you  read?  Yes?  Then  I  will  give  you  a  little  paper 
my  husband  wrote  specially  for  workingmen.  Out  of 
that  packet,  Marion." 

The  little  girl's  sweet  gold  curls  drooped  over  the  bag, 
which  she  opened,  and  she  drew  out  a  great  bundle  of 
tracts,  whence  she  took  one  and  handed  it  to  Everard  with 
the  Maitland  grace  and  smile.  Her  eyes  were  like  Lil- 
ian's, and,  looking  into  their  sweet  depths,  Everard  let 
the  tract  fall  clumsily  into  his  brown  hand,  where  one  of 
the  lacerations  was  bleeding  afresh,  so  that  the  paper  was 
quickly  stained  with  his  blood. 

"Oh,  his  poor  hand,  mother!"  cried  the  child,  piti- 
fully. "Mayn't  I  give  him  my  handkerchief  to  tie  it 
up?" 

Everard  objected,  saying  any  rag  would  serve  the  pur- 
pose; but  Marion  bid  him  take  it,  saying  that  children 
should  learn  to  give.  Then  the  boy  took  a  box  half  full 
of  chocolate  comfits  and  pressed  it  on  him,  "To  make 


270  THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

'oo  hand  well,"'  he  said.  Marion  smiled,  and  the  tears 
clouded  Everard's  eyes,  and  he  remembered  how  the  twins 
used  to  give  away  their  garments  to  tramps  unle«s 
closely  watched. 

He  stood  long  looking  after  the  pony-carriage  till  the 
last  gleam  of  the  two  golden  heads  vanished,  and  the 
mist  over  his  eyes  fell  in  two  great  drops  on  his  face; 
then  he  remembered  his  chance  of  work  at  the  cottage, 
and  walked  up  to  the  door  in  some  trepidation,  and 
pulled  the  bell.  He  thought  of  Marion's  tears  for 
Leslie,  and  wondered  if  she  would  shed  any  if  she  heard 
of  his  death.  Would  she  be  relieved,  as  the  others 
doubless  would,  and  think  it  best  so?  Did  she  ever 
tell  the  children  of  another  uncle,  their  father's  friend, 
lost  before  they  were  born?  "Mamma  kied"  when  the 
soldier  uncle  was  borne  with  honor  to  his  grave ;  but  she 
let  her  children  play  at  convicts,  and  watch  their  dolorous 
daily  procession  for  pastime. 

The  door  opened,  "We  don't  want  no  tramps  here!" 
cried  a  shrill  voice;  and  a  hand  banged  the  door  in 
his  face  again,  and  he  stood  confounded  in  the  porch. 
Then  he  stepped  back  and  took  a  survey  of  the  house, 
and  was  much  relieved  to  see  the  young  widow  at  a 
writing-table,  just  within  an  open  window  on  the  ground- 
floor. 

He  went  up  when  he  caught  her  eye.  "If  you  please, 
ma'am,  I  heard  you  wanted  a  gardener,"  he  said,  lift-- 
ing his  hat. 

"And  they  banged  the  door  in  your  face,"  slie  replied, 
gently.  "But  why  did  you  not  go  to  the  back  door? 
The  girl  was  naturally  angry." 

The  back  door  was  another  custom  to  learn.  He  fal- 
tered out  an  apology,  and  then  proffered  his  request  for 
work.  "I  am  not  a  regular  gardener,  but  I  can  mow 
and  do  odd  jobs,  and  badly  want  work,  being  just  out 
of  the  hospital,"  he  said. 

"I  am  only  a  lodger,"  replied  the  widow;  "but  I  will 
ask."  And  she  rang  the  bell  and  summoned  the  land- 
lady, and,  to  Everard's  surmise,  asked  her  as  a  favor  to 
employ  him.  "You  see  that  photograph,  Mrs.  Brown?" 
she  said,  pointing  to  one  of  an  officer  in  regimentals  on 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND,  271 

the  table  before  her.     "Now,  don't  you  see  a  likeness?" 

"To  whom?"  asked  the  bewildered  woman;  and  Mrs. 
Everard  indicated  Henry  by  a  slight  gesture. 

"You  will  think  me  foolish,  but  I  cannot  mistrust  one 
so  like —  Here  she  burst  into  tears,  and  Mrs.  Brown 
lifted  her  hands  in  dismay. 

"Poor  dear!  her  wits  are  troubled  by  her  loss,"  she 
thought.  "That  ragged  tramp  like  the  poor  gentleman 
in  his  smart  uniform,  indeed!" 

"I  certainly  see  no  likeness,  ma'am,"  she  replied,  after 
a  long  and  depreciated  glance  at  the  tattered  figure  on 
the  lawn,  "but  I'll  do  anything  to  please  you;  and  I  do 
want  the  grass  done,  and  even  if  the  man  isn't  hon- 
est—" 

"I  was  to  say  that  Mrs.  Maitland  recommended  me. 
I  held  her  pony  just  now,"  interposed  Everard. 

This  ended  the  discussion;  and  in  a  minute  or  two 
Everard  found  himself,  scythe  in  hand,  busily  mowing 
the  little  lawn,  to  the  great  discomfort  of  his  torn  hands, 
which  he  had  to  bind  afresh  as  well  as  he  could.  How- 
ever, he  got  through  his  task  in  a  couple  of  hours,  swept 
the  turf  clean,  nailed  up  a  creeper  or  two,  and  did  one  or 
two  odd  jobs  about  the  place  for  the  damsel  who  had  dis- 
missed him  with  such  scorn,  and  did  not  leave  the 
cottage  till  after  dark. 

Whenever  he  paused  in  his  work  and  looked  up,  he 
saw  Mrs.  Everard's  eyes  bent  wistfully  upon  him,  and 
knew  that  she  was  comparing  his  features  with  Leslie's. 
Marion  had  not  recognized  the  playfellow  and  compan- 
ion of  her  youth,  but  this  woman's  eyes  were  made 
keen-sighted  by  love  and  sorrow,  and  traced  out  the 
ordinary  fraternal  resemblance  beneath  the  disguise  of 
the  weather-browned,  tattered  vagrant.  His  heart 
warmed  to  her  and  to  the  child,  who  ran  about,  prattling 
and  getting  in  the  way  of  his  unsuspected  kinsman.  If 
Leslie  had  been  alive,  he  felt  that  he  could  have  asked 
him  for  succor. 

That  night  he  passed  on  a  half-made  rick  of  hay,  a 
fragrant,  warm,  and  luxurious  couch,  shelterd  from  the 
sky  by  a  sheet  of  sail-cloth  spread  tent-wise  to  keep  off 
showers. 


272 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


He  thought  it  better  not  to  seek  work  so  near  the  town, 
since  he  had  wherewith  to  get  food  for  the  day,  so  he  set 
off  northward,  and  walked  as  far  as  his  wounded  leg 
would  let  him,  revolving  many  schemes  for  escape  in  his 
mind  as  he  went  along.  He  took  out  his  tract,  "Plain 
Words  for  Plain  Men,"  and  read  it  with  inward  sarcasm. 
It  was  beautifully  written  and  lucidly  expressed;  by  tne 
Rev.  Canon  Maitland,  Rector  of  St.  Swithun's,  at  some 
country  town,  Rural  Dean;  author  of  several  religious 
works  set  down  in  due  order. 

"So  he  is  a  canon,  is  he?"  muttered  Everard,  fiercely, 
as  he  limped  along  in  the  burning  sunshine.  "How  long 
does  it  take  to  grow  into  an  archbishop,  I  wonder?  And 
how  much  damned  hypocrisy  and  lying  treachery 
does  it  take  to  make  one?"  and  be  tore  the  paper  into  a 
hundred  fragments  and  dashed  it  into  the  road-dust, 
where  he  stamped  savagely  upon  it.  Then  he  thought  of 
Marion  and  the  sweet  children  who  were  kind  to  the 
ragged  vagrant,  and  his  heart  contracted  with  a  wild 
pain. 

At  noon  he  rested  in  a  wood,  where  a  thick  under- 
growth of  hazels  made  a  shelter  from  eyes  as  well  as 
from  the  sun.  On  the  mosses  and  tangled  roots  of  an 
ash-tree,  he  sat  at  the  edge  of  the  hazel  wall,  just  where 
the  ground  sloped  down  to  a  little  stream,  which  bick- 
ered over  its  mossy  pebbles  with  a  pleasant  sound,  and 
caught  in  its  tiny  wave  the  cool  lights  glancing  through 
the  wind-stirred  boughs  above  it. 

This  was  better  than  prison,  Everard  thought,  as  he 
stretched  his  weary,  hot  limbs  at  length  on  the  dry,  short 
grass,  and  gazed  up  through  the  gently  waving,  sun- 
steeped  leaves  at  glimpses  of  blue  sky,  and  listened  to  the 
brook's  low  and  soothing  song  and  the  whispering  of 
the  laughing  leaves,  and  smelled  the  vague,  delicious 
scent  of  the  woodlands,  and  forgot  the  aching  of  his 
wounds  and  the  cough  which  had  shaken  him  since 
chills  of  the  night  in  the  wet  elm-tree. 

For  the  moment  he  wanted  nothing  more.  It  would 
be  sweet,  after  those  long  years  of  toil  and  prison,  to 
wander  thus  forever  in  the  sweet  summer  weather  quite 
alone,  his  whole  being  open  to  the  half-forgotten  influ- 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


273 


ences  of  free  earth  and  sky,  fields  and  streams  and 
woods,  sunrises  and  sunsets  and  solemn  nights  marked 
by  the  quiet  marshalling  of  the  stars,  till  he  was  healed 
of  the  grievous  hurts  of  his  long  agony.  Even  the 
hunted  feeling,  the  necessity  for  hiding  and  being  ever 
on  the  alert,  even  the  danger  that  dogged  every  step,  was 
refreshing  and  stimulating.  This  wild  life  was  full  of 
adventure,  and  roused  his  faculties,  which  the  iron  hand 
of  bondage  had  benumbed. 

The  simple  meal  he  had  purchased  tasted  deliciously, 
the  brook's  water  was  like  sparkling  wine  in  comparison 
'with  that  of  the  prison.  For  company  his  cell  boasted 
at  most  an  occasional  spider;  while  here  in  the  wood 
were  a  thousand  of  friendly  guests,  flying,  creeping, 
swimming,  humming,  peeping  at  him  with  bright,  sby 
syes,  chirping,  and  even  singing  a  fragmentary  song  in 
the  noonday  heat. 

A  wren  beguiled  by  his  long  stillness  and  the  tempt- 
ing crumbs  he  strewed,  hopped  up  within  an  inch  of  his 
motionless  hand,  and  pecked  pertly  at  the  unusual 
dainty.  Everard  remembered  the  wren  he  had  seen  on 
his  last  day  of  liberty,  the  wren  which  nestled  on  Lil- 
ian's muff  and  let  her  touch  him,  while  he  and  Cyril 
looked  on,  and  Cyril  said  that  it  was  Lilian's  guileness 
which  gave  her  such  power  over  dumb  creatures.  He 
remembered  asking  Cyril  how  he,  who  was  equally 
guileless,  had  lost  his  power,  and  Cyril's  agonized  re- 
joinder, "Henry,  I  am  a  man." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

After  his  simple  meal,  Everard  spread  his  treasures  on 
the  grass  before  him,  and  eyed  them  lovingly.  It  was  so 
long  since  he  had  possessed  anything  save  his  own  soul, 
and  that  he  could  scarcely  keep  from  the  devil's  clutch, 
that  he  enjoyed  them  more  than  those  who  possessed  their 
own  bodies  and  the  labor  of  their  hands,  and  perchance 
rauch  more,  can  imagine. 


274 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


The  first  treasure  was  the  box  of  comfits  with  the  gay 
picture  on  the  lid,  which  had  doubtless  charmed  the 
innocent  gaze  of  its  boy  owner.  It  had  contracted  a 
slight  stain,  which  vexed  him,  but  he  ate  one  of  the  com- 
flts  slowly  and  luxuriously,  and  it  made  a  glorious  des- 
sert. By  its  side,  carefully  secured  from  flying  away  by  a 
pebble,  lay  the  little  handkerchief  with  its  initials, 
M.  L.  M.  He  had  not  used  it  for  his  hand,  but  had 
begged  rags  instead. 

It  seemed -sacrilege  to  make  use  of  this  sole  token  of 
little  Marion's  sweet  nature,  but  it  would  be  a  capital  bag 
for  the  rnpney  which  glittered  on  the  grass  before  him, 
Marion's  shilling  among  it:  and  he  resolved  to  change 
only  in  dire  need.  Balfour's  pipe  was  the  next  treasure, 
and  into  that  he  put  the  last  of  the  screw  of  tobacco,  and 
smoked  it  with  a  happy  heart,  thinking  gratefully  of  the 
woman  who  gave  him  meat,  and  of  Leslie's  widow  and 
her  kindness  to  him.  She  too  had  brought  him  out  a 
cup  of  tea  during  his  mowing,  and  the  little  child  had 
carried  him  a  great  hunch  of  seed-cake,  and  though  these 
had'  been  welcome  enough,  the  gentle  words  and  looks 
had  far  outweighed  them.  Musing  on  these  tilings,  he 
fell  fast  asleep,  with  the  unguarded  treasures  by  his  side, 
and  .did  not  wake  till  late  afternoon,  startled,  but  reas- 
sured to  find  his  possessions  intact. 

He  had  hitherto  chosen  field-paths  as  much  as  possible, 
always  keeping  a  high-road  in  sight,  and  shaping  his 
course  by  the  sun;  but  now  it  became  necessary  to  take 
to  the  road,  which  was  full  of  dangers  for  him.  He  met 
a  policeman  or  two,  ^ach  of  whom  eyed  him  curiously  and 
doubtfully,  and  one  ctf  whom  accosted  him,  and  put  him 
through  a  series  of  Questions  as  to  whence  he  came, 
whither  he  went,  and  what  was  his  name  and  occupation ; 
to  which  Everard,  with  inward  tremors,  answered  calmly 
enough. 

His  name  was  Stone;  he  was  just  out  of  the  hospital;  he 
was  tramping  to  his  friends,  who  lived  on  the  other  side 
of  London,  and  was  glad  to  do  odd  jobs  on  the  road,  if 
the  policeman  could  put  him  in  the  way  of  such.  The 
policeman,  who  was  not  a  very  brilliant  fellow,  was  per- 
fectly satisfied  to  let  him  pass,  though  he  was  actually, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  275 

like  the  police  all  around,  on  the  lookout  for  a  man  of  his 
height,  figure  and  appearance. 

As  he  drew  near  a  little  village,  he  saw  a  provision- 
wagon,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  horses,  standing  outside  a  pub- 
lic-house; the  good  fellow  who  drove  it  was  absent,  and 
doubtless  refreshing  himself  in  the  cozy  bar  within.  Ever- 
ard  passed  on  through  the  village,  and  read  the  mile- 
stone at  the  other  end,  which  recorded  the  number  of 
miles  to  London.  He  had  only  lessened  the  record  by 
twelve  that  day,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  tramp  far  into 
the  night,  if  his  strength  held  out. 

A  great  clatter  suddenly  rose  behind  him,  and,  turn- 
ing, he  saw  the  provision-wagon  pelting  down  the  slop- 
ing village  street  with  no  one  on  the  box.  He  rushed 
back,  putting  up  his  arms  and  shouting ;  one  or  two  men 
followed  his  example,  and  at  the  top  of  the  hill  he  saw 
the  driver,  red-faced  and  breathless,  pursuing  the  horses, 
whip  in  hand.  The  runaways  cantered  on,  and  Everard 
threw  himself  upon  them,  grasping  the  near  horse's  head, 
but  he  was  carried  off  his  feet  and  dropped;  then  he  rose 
and  caught  them  again,  till  he  succeeded  in  stopping 
them,  after  a  very  plucky  struggle.  The  driver  offered 
him  a  lift,  which  he  gratefully  accepted,  together  with 
some  tobacco,  and  they  jogged  on  till  night,  when  they 
reached  a  country  town. 

Passing  the  town,  Everard  walked  on  till  after  mid- 
night, and  then  slept  under  a  haystack.  Early  next 
morning  he  went  into  a  farm-yard,  where  he  saw  a  farmer 
sending  his  men  off  to  work,  and  boldly  asked  for  a  job, 
and  found  himself,  after  a  little  hesitation  and  questioning, 
among  a  hay-making  gang,  with  whom  he  worked  till 
evening,  obtaining  permission  to  sleep  in  a  barn  that 
night,  and  the  promise  of  work  on  the  Monday,  that  being 
Saturday  night. 

He  was  glad  enough  to  lie  still  that  Sunday  morning, 
and  rest  on  the  bundles  of  straw  which  made  his  couch, 
listening  to  the  drowsy  chime  of  the  church  bells,  and 
enjoying  the  luxury  of  a  roof  which  was  not  a  prison, 
until  increasing  hunger  compelled  him  to  rise  soon  after 
noon.  As  he  passed  through  the  farm-yard,  he  saw  a  red- 
armed  maid  feeding  the  pigs  with  skim-milk  and  cold  po- 


376  THE  SILEXJE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

tatoes,  on  which  he  cast  as  wistful  an  eye  as  the  prodigal 
did  on  the  swine's  husk. 

He  was  passing  on,  when  the  farmer's  wife,  rustling  in 
her  Sunday  silk,  came  in  on  her  way  from  church ;  Henry 
touched  his  hat  and  opened  the  gate  for  her,  while  she 
asked  him  rather  sharply  why  he  was  hanging  about  the 
place.  He  told  her  that,  being  very  weary,  he  had  but  just 
risen,  and  promised  not  to  come  again  till  night. 

"We  are  obliged  to  be  careful  about  harboring  stran- 
gers," she  said,  softened  by  his  reply.  "We  never  know 
who  they  may  be;  escaped  convicts  trom  Portsmouth  as 
often  as  not.  One  convict  got  loose  only  the  other  day  in 
the  thunder-storm,  and  may  be  hiding  about  here,  for  all 
we  know.  Where  are  you  going  to  get  dinner?  At  the 
public-house?  A  bad  place.  Maria,  bring  out  the  pie 
that  was  left  yesterday,  and  a  mug  of  ale.  And  after  you've 
eaten  it,  you  can  be  off.  There's  church  this  afternoon, 
if  you'd  only  got  clothes  to  go  in." 

Everard  dined  very  happily  on  the  low  stone  wall  of  the 
court-yard,  though  a  meat-pastry  with  good  gravy  is  not 
the  most  convenient  dish  to  eat  with  the  fingers.  He 
effected  a  total  clearance,  however,  to  the  deep  admira- 
tion of  Maria,  who  watched  to  see  that  he  did  not  make 
away  with  the  dish  and  mug,  and  went  on  his  way  re- 
freshed. 

He  got  paper,  pen  and  ink  at  a  public-house  that  after- 
noon, and  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Lilian,  telling  her  of  his 
escape,  and  asking  her  to  send  a  few  pounds  to  him  at  the 
post-office  of  that  little  village. 

He  would  have  felt  less  pain  in  applying  for  money  to 
Lilian  than  to  any  of  those  on  whom  he  had  a  more  direct 
claim,  but  who  had  so  totally  cast  him  off.  As  it  chanced, 
however,  she  had  his  watch  and  chain,  which  he  had  lent 
to  Mrs.  Maitland  on  the  very  morning  of  his  arrest,  and  he 
only  needed  the  value  of  that  for  his  immediate  purpose, 
which  was  to  get  decent  working  garments,  and,  as  soon 
as  his  hair  was  grown,  to  try  for  a  passage  to  America.  If 
Lilian  cared  to  apply  to  his  family,  and  they  offered  large 
aid,  well.  He  would  not  refuse  help,  save  from  Cyril ;  but 
he  would  not  ask  it. 

He  worked  on  for  three  or  four  days,  till  the  farmer 
had  got  all  his  hay\in;  then  he  was  obliged  to  try  else- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  277 

where,  and,  in  trying,  lost  several  days.  Every  few  days 
he  returned  to  Hawkburne  to  see  if  there  were  "any  an- 
swer to  his  letter,  and  every  time  he  got  a  negative  from 
the  postmistress;  a  keener  disappointment  seized  him.  He 
got  a  day's  work  here  and  an  hour's  job  there  during  the 
next  fortnight,  but  no  regular  work. 

When  he  got  money,  he  dared  not  spend  it  on  a  good 
meal;  he  knew  that  he  must  husband  it  for  the  days  when 
there  was  no  work.  What  with  poor  food  and  open-air 
sleeping,  and  the  cough  and  rheumatism  which  he  got 
that  night  in  the  damp  tree,  he  fell  into  poor  condition, 
and  though  his  hands  were  almost  healed,  and  the  gun- 
shot-wound no  longer  caused  him  to  limp,  people  did  not 
care  to  employ  such  a  gaunt,  starved,  hollow-cheeked 
man. 

He  had  passed  three  weeks  in  liberty,  and  had  been 
several  days  without  work,  for  it  was  an  unfortunate  time. 
Haymaking  was  just  ended,  and  harvest  not  yet  begun. 
Everybody  was  at  leisure,  and  no  one  wanted  any  odd 
jobs  done.  His  only  chance  was  to  wait  till  harvest.  But 
waiting  was  the  difficulty.  He  looked  at  the  richly  waving 
fields,  mellowing  day  by  day,  and  knew  by  their  tints  it 
must  be  a  week  or  two  before  the  first  was  ready  for  the 
scythe.  How  close  at  hand  harvest  seemed  to  the  farmers 
and  their  busy  housewives!  Visits  must  be  paid  and  pur- 
chases made  in  the  town  because  harvest  was  so  near;  but 
how  far  off  it  seemed  to  Everard,  seen  across  a  gulf  of 
Starvation!  The  workhouse  meant  certain  detection  and 
capture ;  he  resolved  to  beg. 

He  had  been  two  days  without  food,  and  dragged  his 
faint  limbs  back  to  Hawkburne  late  one  Saturday  after- 
noon, to  inquire  once  more  for  the  letter  and  remittance, 
which  surely  could  not  fail  to  have  arrived  now.  In  the 
event  of  being  absent  or  ill,  Lilian  must  have  got  his 
letter  by  this  time,  and  would  certainly  send  a  reply  at 
once,  even  if  by  another  hand.  It  was  scarcely  worth 
while  to  beg  on  the  road  back  to  Hawkburne,  help  being 
so  near.  He  pulled  himself  together,  and'  entered  the  -lit- 
tle post-office  with  quite  a  jaunty  air;  but  one  glance  at 
the  postmistress  was  enough.  She  shook  her  head  before 
he  had  time  to  speak. 

"Nothing  for  you,  Stone," 


278  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  HA.1TLAND. 

"Are  you  quite  sure?  Have  you  looked?"  he  asked, 
turning"  many  shades  paler. 

"Looked? "yes-  Aim  nice  trouble  I've  had  with  you 
worrying  day  after  clay  these  three  weeks,  and  much 
thanks  1  get  for  it,"  she  replied  snappishly,'  for  it  was 
Saturday,  and  she  had  just  taken  her  hands  from  the 
scrubbing-pail  for  the  third  time  for  nothing,  and  had  had 
nobody  .at  hand  to  scold  all  the  afternoon,  and  the  baby 
had  just  waked  with  a  terrific  screech. 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,"  he  returned;  "but 
I  cannot  understand  it.  The  letter  was  so  important. 
My  friends  know  how  desperately  hard  up  I  am,  and  the 
remittance  was  my  own  money." 

"I  dare  say.  Why  don't  you  take  and  go  to  your 
friends?  Keeping  me  here  all  day,  and  this  blessed 
child — "  she  had  run  and  fetched  the  infant,  which  was 
screaming  and  kicking  with  fifty-baby  power  in  her  arms 
— "a  precious  dear!  and  its  mother  worried  with  tramps 
then.  There,  there!" 

"  I  thought,  perhaps,"  he  added,  raising  his  voice  above 
the  maddening  din,  "it  might  have  been  overlooked.  Ac- 
cidents do  happen,  ma'am,  however  careful  people  are.  If 
you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  search  agairr." 

"I  dare  say,  indeed!  There!  look  yourself  then,  un- 
believing Jew — there,  there,  mother's  precious! — and  get 
along  out  of  my  shop  with  you  this  minute!" 

"If  you  would  give  me  a  sheet  of  paper  for  the  love  of 
Heaven,  and  let  me  write  again." 

"Go  on  out  of  the  shop,  I  tell  ye!"  cried  the  angry 
woman,  deaf  to  all  his  entreaties. 

He  sat  down  in  the  hedge  by  the  roadside  in  utter 
despair.  What  if  Lilian  were  dead?  Even  then  others 
would  read  the  letter?  Had  she  forgotten  him?  It  en- 
tered his  heart  like  a  sharp  knife.  But  no;  Lilian  could 
not  desert  even  an  insect  in  its  pain.  His  hands,  in 
which  his  face  rested,  were  wet;  he  found  he  had  been 
crying  in  his  disappointment,  and  he  was  not  ashamed. 
He  cried  on,  dimly  conscious  of  bodily  exhaustion  and 
illness,  and  after  atime  got  up,  feeling  that  he  must  do 
something;  he  knew  not  what. 

Now  that  there  was  no  longer  hope  to  buoy  him  up,  he 
found  a  difficulty  in  walking  in  his  weakness  and  pain. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  279 

He  dragged  himself  to  the  Rectory  and  begged.  The 
rector,  a  rich  man  and  a  generous,  drove  him  from  the 
door.  He  never  encouraged  tramps,  Stone  should  go  to 
the  workhouse,  he  said.  He  next  tried  a  comfortable 
house,  in  which  some  wealthy  maiden  ladies  lived,  with  no 
better  success.  The  ladies  and  their  maids  were  fright- 
ened to  death  at  the  sight  of  him,  and  threatened  to  send 
one  John — who,  if  he  were  other  than  a  phantom  of  the 
ladies'  own  conjuring,  was  truly  of  a  singular  taciturnity, 
and  possessed  of  the  power  of  making  himself  invisible — 
for  the  police. 

Everard  wandered  down  the  neat  gravel  path  with  a 
sick  heart;  and,  turning  up  a  lane,  he  came  upon  a  cot- 
tage, where  a  poorly  dressed  woman  stood  nursing  a  child 
at  the  gate.  He  would  not  beg  of  her;  but  she,  who 
knew  him  by  sight  and  name,  as  having  helped  at  hay- 
making with  her  husband,  accosted  him,  and  asked  if  he 
had  got  work  and  the  remittance  he  expected.  He  shook 
his  head  in  reply,  and  she  asked  when  he  had  last  eaten, 
when  he  again  shook  his  head,  and  smiled  faintly.  She 
looked  at  him  with  a  pitiful  expression,  and  bid  him  walk 
in  and  rest,  which  he  was  glad  to  do. 

Then  she  warmed  some  cold  tea  and  cold  potatoes,  and 
set  them  before  him,  apologizing  for  the  poor  fare,  and 
observing  that  her  husband,  whom  Everard  knew  to  be  a 
drinking  man,  had  not  yet  come  home  with  the  weekly 
wage.  Wolfishly  as  he  had  eyed  the  good  creature's  sim- 
ple cookery,  Everard  found  that  he  could  not  finish  what 
was  set  before  him ;  he  was  too  far  gone. 

That  night  he  passed  in  a  half-ruined  and  disused 
cattle-shed  not  far  from  Hawkburne,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing he  rose  and  trudged  along  the  high-road  to  the  next 
village,  asking  an  occasional  alms  when  he  fell  in  with 
church-goers,  but  getting  none.  The  little  belfry  of  the 
village  church,  the  name  of  which  he  never  knew,  had  a 
sweet  peal  of  bells.  Their  sweetness  charmed  him  to 
tears,  and  he  thought  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  go  to 
church  once  more,  a  free  man ;  so,  after  the  congregation 
had  entered  the  little  fane,  he  dragged  his  fast-failing  limbs 
into  the  church-yard,  and  looked  in  through  the  lower 
part  of  the  lozenge-paned  window,  the  top  of  which  was 
open. 


280  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

The  interior  of  the  cool,  dark  church,  with  its  low,  heavy 
stone  arches,  sculptured  tombs  and  rustic  worshippers, 
ranged  in  orderly  quiet,  v/as  a  refreshing  spectacle  to  the 
outcast's  eyes,  and,  leaning  on  the  broad  stone  window- 
ledge,  he  saw  and  heard  all.  The  Psalms  were  being 
read,  and  his  heart  bounded  strangely  as  he  heard,  "When 
the  Lord  turned  the  captivity  of  Zion,  then  were  we  like 
unto  them  that  dream;  then  was  our  mouth  filled  with 
laughter  and  our  tongue  with  joy."  Surely  his  captivity 
was  to  be  turned  at  last. 

The  organ  pealed,  and  the  simple  chants  fell  pleasantly 
on  his  ear;  but  his  head  swam  so  that  he  lost  parts  of  the 
service,  and  those  verses  rang  on  through  his  mind.  He 
roused  up  during  the  second  lesson,  and  heard,  with 
deep  emotion,  the  following  passages:  "I  was  a  stranger, 
and  ye  took  me  in;  naked,  and  ye  clothed  me;  sick  and 
and  horror  fell  upon  him  when  he  realized  that  a  whole 
congregation  of  Christian  worshippers  sat  listening  to 
those  words  of  terrible  and  tender  meaning,  while  he  was 
in  prison,  and  ye  visited  me;" — and  a  sensation  of  awe 
perishing  within  ear-shot,  unregarded.  Of  some  of  them 
he  had  begged  in  vain;  the  man  who  was  even  then  read- 
ing, "Lord,  when  saw  we  thee  hungry  and  fed  thee?"  was 
the  very  man  who  drove  him  but  yesterday  from  his  door, 
sick  and  starving;  of  the  others  he  felt  he  dared  not  beg. 

Then  he  remembered  that  his  brother  George  was,  per- 
haps, then  reading  those  very  words,  "When  saw  we 
thee  in  prison?"  and  Cyril,  the  traitor  Cyril,  in  his  large 
town  church,  was  most  probably  reading  them,  too,  read- 
ing them  in  his  voice  of  magnificent  power  and  pathos  to 
an  awed  multitude.  In  every  church  in  the  land  those 
awful  and  beautiful  words  were  being  read,  and  yet  he 
knew  that  no  help  could  come  to  him.  "Depart  from 
me,  ye  cursed,"  burst  forth  the  rector,  with  sudden  sonof^ 
ous  energy,  and  Everard  shuddered  and  sent  up  an  agon- 
ized prayer  for  Cyril. 

The  sun  was  hot,  and  he  grew  weary  of  his  place  by  the 
window,  and  sat  down  amid  the  green  graves  beneath  a 
shady  tree  till  the  congregation  came  out  Then  he  rose, 
when  they  were  all  gone,  and  knocked  at  the  first  cottage 
door  he  reached,  having  learned  by  this  time  that  the  poor 
are  better  almoners  of  hand-to-hand  charity  than  the  rich, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  28l 

because  they  know  better  what  it  is  to  go  without  a  meal. 
Some  bread  was  put  in  his  hands,  with  words  he  was  too 
dazed  to  hear;  but  he  found,  on  trying  to  eat  the  bread, 
that  he  could  not  swallow. 

All  that  day  he  lay  in  a  field,  and  at  evening  rose  with 
difficulty,  and  asked  for  a  night's  shelter;  for  the  dews 
were  chilly,  and  he  knew  he  was  now  too  ill  to  bear  expos- 
ure. It  was  refused. 

He  wandered  a  little  further  on,  and  sank  on  the  bare 
earth  in  a  sort  of  stupor,  from  which  he  was  roused  by 
the  chilly  dawning  of  the  next  day.  He  was  on  a  bank 
beneath  a  large  lime-tree,  by  the  side  of  a  brook,  which 
sang  in  quiet  undertones,  like  the  brook  in  the  wood 
where  he  dined  so  happily  when  first  at  liberty.  He  could 
not  move. 

At  first  it  seemed  terrible  to  face  death  thus,  outcast 
and  alone,  and  all  the  scenes  of  his  life  flashed  past  him, 
and  the  strange  anguish  which  falls  on  us  at  the  thought 
of  dying  in  the  midst  of  sorrow,  before  any  hope  has  been 
fulfilled,  seized  upon  him  with  vulture  beak. 

Did  his  mother  bear  him  with  bitter  pains  for  this,  to 
die  in  his  prime  of  want  and  hardship?  All  the  high 
hopes  and  rich  promise  of  his  youth  smote  upon  him 
with  keen  anguish,  and  Cyril's  one  message  to  him  in 
prison,  "He  shall  make  thy  righteousness  clear  as  the 
light,  and  thine  innocence  as  the  noonday,"  shot  across 
his  brain  in  letters  of  fire. 

Some  feeling  of  family  pride  revived  within  him,  and 
he  thought  how  much  harder  it  was  for  an  Everard  to 
perish  by  the  way  than  for  one  born  by  the  wayside  and 
nurtured  in  want.  He  thought  of  Leslie.  Did  he  lie 
alone  thus  face  to  face  with  death,  when  he  got  the  wound 
which  in  the  end  proved  fatal?  How  different  that  dying 
on  the  field  of  honor  must  have  been!  And  yet,  how 
small,  how  phantom-like  everything  earthly  seemed  in 
that  hour  of  tremendous  reality.  Did  not  one  event  hap- 
pen to  all? 

The  green  fields,  dewy  bright  in  the  rising  sun,  reeled 
before  him,  and  he  summoned  his  failing  forces  and  ap- 
plied them  to  prayer  for  all  who  had  been  dear  to  him. 

He  was  now  no  more  alone ;  the  sweet  and  awful  con- 
sciousness of  a  Divine  Presence  came  upon  his  calmed 


282  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAXD. 

soul.  Lilian's  beautiful  voice  seemed  to  speak  passages 
full  of  mighty  hope  from  the  Scriptures;  he  heard  the 
brook's  low  murmur  and  the  light  whisper  of  the  leaves 
above  his  head.  He  seemed  to  be  resting  on  some  kind 
arm,  which  was  now  Lilian's,  now  an  angel's,  and  the 
rose-flushed  morning  sky  at  which  he  gazed  opened  and 
disclosed  indistinct  forms  moving  in  the  light.  He  saw 
his  mother's  face,  Leslie's,  the  baby  Maitlands,  so  long 
dead;  majestic  presences,  spiritual  beings,  souls  of  the 
noble  dead  hovered  near  in  august  silence,  through  which 
a  mighty  music  of  unutterable  joy  swept  in  melodious 
thunders. 

The  vision  vanished  in  a  keen  chill,  and  he  woke  to 
find  rain  pattering  on  his  upturned  face.  The  fresh 
shower  renewed  his  sinking  energies,  and  cleared  his 
brain;  some  animal  instinct  told  him  day  was  declining. 
He  knew  that  the  bitterness  of  death  was  past.  It  was 
sweet  to  feel  the  soft  rushing  of  the  cool  rain  on  his  face; 
it  seemed  a  pleasant  thing  to  die  thus,  to  cease  from  pain- 
ful being,  and  mingle  with  the  kindly  elements  and  dis- 
solve into  the  gracious  components  of  the  great  universe. 
The  brook  sang  on,  and  the  leaves  rustled  lovingly  to- 
gether, and  a  little  wren  suddenly  let  its  strong  heart  of 
song  loose  upon  the  air;  such  a  volume  of  melody  from 
such  a  tiny  breast!  He  remembered  what  Cyril  said  one 
day  of  the  wren's  song — "If  the  mere  joy  of  animal  ex- 
istence evokes  such  a  passion  of  rapture,  what  must  be 
the  fullness  of  bliss  called  forth  by  the  consciousness  of 
pure  spiritual  life,  unfettered  and  unclogged  by  sin  or 
sense?" 

It  did  not  seen  strange  that  Cyril  was  sitting  there  by 
his  side,  discoursing  in  the  old  bright  way,  with  the  old 
familiar  kindness  and  something  more  than  the  old  radi- 
ance of  youth  in  the  blue  eyes,  whose  light  was  blended 
confusingly  with  that  of  the  blue  heaven  above,  whence 
the  clouds  were,  rapidly  sweeping.  Cyril  spoke  of  the 
broken  Sevres  vase,  laughing  at  the  childish  terrors  of 
that  by-gone  transgression.  "You  got  the  blame,  old  fel- 
low, and  the  punishment,  but  I  got  the  suffering,"  he  said. 
"Yes,"  he  added,  in  the  thoughtfulness  that  was  wont  to 
descend  upon  the  twins  in  their  lightest  moments;  "the 
sorrow  of  sorrows  is  sin." 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MA.ITLAND. 


283 


Then  Cyril  seemed  to  fade,  and  only  Lilian  remained, 
unseen,  supporting  him  till  he  lost  all  consciousness. 

"It  is  a  case  of  want  and  exposure,"  said  the  doctor, 
bending  over  the  lifeless  form  beneath  the  tree,  and  ap- 
plying brandy  to  the  closed  lips.  "Stand  back,  if  you 
please.  I  wonder  that  you  picnickers  let  the  man  lie  alone 
here  all  these  hours!" 

"We  thought  he  was  drunk,"  replied  a  young  man,  with 
an  air  of  compunction.  "We  passed  him  at  noon,  and  did 
not  pass  again  till  five,  when  he  seemed  to  be  asleep. 
Tramps  so  often  sleep  half  the  day." 

"And  Smith  saw  him  at  nine,  and  he  was  begging  in 
the  village  yesterday,  and  must  have  lain  here  all  last 
night,  and  it  is  eight  o'clock  now.  What  do  you  think 
of  that,  inspector?'' 

"I  think,"  replied  the  police  inspector,  who  had 
chanced  to  be  driving  by  in  his  dog-cart,  with  a  couple 
of  stout  constables,  just  after  the  village  doctor's  arrival, 
''that  this  is  the  very  chap  we've  been  wantig  this  three 
weeks.  There  will  be  a  gunshot-wound  in  the  leg.  A 
gentleman  of  your  profession,  doctor,  if  this  is  my  man. 
Not  dead,  is  he?  What,  more  brandy?  and  not  a  sign  of 
life  yet?" 

"Nothing  in  the  pockets  but  this/'  said  a  constable, 
showing  the  empty  comfit-box,  the  handkerchief  marked 
"M.  L.  M."  and  the  piece  of  bread  given  on  the  Sunday. 

"Ah!  and  his  name  is  Stone,  and  he's  been  after  let- 
ters at  Hawkburne  this  three  weeks,  has  he,  sir?  And 
begged  at  the  Rectory,  did  he?" 

"We  had  our  eye  on  that  post-office,  but  never  chanced 
to  light  on  the  man,"  added  the  inspector.  "Quick  with 
those  blankets  there !  Here,  doctor,  isn't  this  a  gunshot- 
wound?  He'll  be  all  right  at  the  station-house.  He 
can  go  in  a  cart,  I  suppose?  Our  own  surgeon  will  look 
to  him  there.  If  you  don't  mind  the  trouble  of  going 
with  him,  doctor,  nobody  will  hinder  you.  Do  you  think 
he'll  die  on  the  way?" 

A  week  or  two  later,  there  was  a  cheerful  family  group 
in  Canon  Maitland's  drawing-room,  the  windows  of 
which  stood  wide  to  a  small  lawn  sloping  down  to  a 
stream,  beyond  which  lay  the  little  country  town,  half 
veiled  in  light  smoke-mist.  His  twin-sister  was  there, 
with  children  playing  on  her  knees,  and  his  pretty  wife 


384 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


sat  at  a  tea-table  and  talked  to  him  on  various  homely 
themes. 

"And  why  do  you  think,  Marion,"  asked  Lilian,  after 
a  thoughtful  pause,  during  which  she  had  not  been  listen- 
ing to  them,  "that  the  man  who  held  your  pony  at  Burn- 
ham  was  the  escaped  convict?" 

"Lilian,"  interposed  the  canon,  quickly,  "how  often 
have  I  begged  you  to  spare  me  these  topics?  You  know 
I  cannot  hear  that  word  without  pain." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Lilian,  "I  should  hear  the  word  with 
less  pain  myself,  if  I  did  not  know  that  Henry  was  at 
Portsmouth." 

Cyril's  face  blanched  and  he  was  about  to  reply,  when 
the  door  burst  open,  and  Keppel  Everard  rushed  in. 

"By  George,  Marion!"  he  cried,  "that  runaway  con- 
vict whose  adventures  we  were  reading  yesterday,  turns 
out  to  be  that  poor  devil  Henry !" 

"I  knew  it!"  cried  Marion  passionately.  "Oh,  Lilian, 
I  might  have  saved  him  and  I  did  not!  He  was  so  like 
him,  but  so  worn  and  old.  Oh,  Lilian,  his  eyes  when  he 
looked  at  the  children!  And  Amy  saw  the  likeness  to 
Leslie.  How  little  she  guessed!" 

"How  do  you  know  this,  KeppeT?"  asked  Cyril,  in  his 
deepest  tones,  while  Marion  sobbed  convulsively,  and 
Lilian,  marble  pale,  clasped  the  child  which  was  leaning 
upon  her  more  tightly,  and  listened. 

"The  governor  of  the  prison  told  my  father.  Henry 
was  at  death's  door  from  exhaustion  and  hardship.  He 
wanted  instructions  about  burying  him,  but  the  poor  fel- 
low got  better,  unluckily — for  all  parties." 

"For  heaven's  sake  calm  yourself,  Marion !"  said  Cyril, 
who  was  himself  trembling  exceedingly.  "The  children 
are  frightened.  By  the  way,  Lilian,  I  never  gave  you 
the  letter  Lennie  brought  this  morning.  It  got  mislaid 
somehow  among  Winnie's,  and  ought  to  have  been  deliv- 
ered weeks  ago." 

Lillian  took  the  letter  with  an  abstracted  air,  and  was 
about  to  put  it  in  her  pocket,  when  the  postmark,  Hawk- 
burne,  caught  her  eye,  and  a  closer  examination  showed 
her  that  the  handwriting,  distorted  and  irregular  as  a 
wounded  hand  had  made  it,  yet  faintly  resembled  Hen- 
ry's. She  tore  it  open,  read  it,  and  fainted  for  the  first 
and  last  time  in  her  life. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  M  AIT  LAND.  385 


PART  III. 


"I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition: 
By  that  sin  fell  the  angels;  how  can  man  then 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  't? 
Love  tbyse'f  last;  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  theee." 


CHAPTER  I. 

One  bright  summer  morning  in  the  year  1881,  a  man 
was  travelling  through  the  heart  of  Devonshire  to  Exeter 
in  a  first-class  carriage,  the  only  other  occupant  of  which 
was  a  comfortable-looking  clergyman,  who  was  evidently 
able  to  digest  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  and  a  good  daily 
dinner  with  equal  facility,  and  whose  parish,  no  doubt, 
showed  a  happy  sterility  of  evil-livers  and  dissenters, 
with  an  equally  happy  fertility  of  tithes.  This  clergy- 
man's kindly,  fresh-complexioned  face  assumed  an  ex- 
pression of  singular  concern  and  perplexity  whenever  he 
looked,  as  he  did  furtively  from  time  to  time  under  cover 
of  his  newspaper,  at  his  fellow  traveller.  The  latter  was 
a  gaunt,  haggard  man,  with  a  worn  and  wasted  face, 
which  was  partially  covered  by  a  beard,  the  even  and 
sharply  cut  ends  of  which  showed  that  it  had  only  re- 
cently been  allowed  to  grow,  and  was  lighted  by  dark, 
deeply  sunken  eyes  of  a  kindly  but  singularly  wistful  ex- 
pression ;  the  beard  as  well  as  the  hair  was  grizzled. 

The  man  looked  about  fifty  or  five-and-fifty ;  his  shoul- 
ders were  bent,  and  he  walked  with  a  stiff  and  labored 
gait.  His  manner  was  shy  and  uneasy:  he  wore  gloves, 
which  he  never  removed;  and  his  dress  consisted  of  a 
badly  made  and  ill-fitting  suit  of  gray.  The  clergyman 
recognized  this  suit  of  gray  as  that  which  is  supplied  to 
discharged  prisoners  and  soldiers. 

It  was  scarcely  possible  to  recognize  in  this  bowed  and 


186  TRE  SILENCE   Of  DEAN  MAITLANl>( 

broken  man  in  the  ill-fitting  gray  suit,  the  handsome, 
light-hearted  young  fellow  who  travelled  down  to  Olciport 
with  another  clergyman  only  eighteen  years  before,  full 
of  health  and  hope  and  intellect,  and  talking  gaily  of  all 
things  in  heaven  and  earth.  And  yet,  if  you  looked  care- 
fully at  him,  there  was  the  same  direct  and  clear  gaze  in 
the  candid  brown  eyes,  the  same  sweetness  about  the  lips, 
the  same  look  of  moral  strength  in  the  whole  face. 

But  there  was  no  longer  the  air  of  intellectual  power  or 
the  confident  calm  of  a  man  whose  fate  is  in  his  own 
hands,  and  who  means  to  mold  it  to  noble  purposes. 
Eighteen  years  of  intense  suffering,  heroically  endured, 
had  marked  the  face  with  an  unspeakable  nobility  and 
gentleness — an  expression  which  deeply  impressed  and 
mystified  the  clergyman  opposite  him,  who  knew  perfect- 
ly that  the  owner  of  this  sublime  face  must  have  left  Dart- 
moor but  an  hour  or  two  before. 

Yes,  Everard  was  free  at  last.  The  day  for  which  he 
had  sighed  through  all  that  furnace  of  long  years  had 
actually  dawned.  He  might  come  and  go  beneath  flic 
broad  heaven  above  England  as  he  listed.  The  fever  of 
this  thought  had  kept  him  awake  through  the  long  hours 
of  the  last  night  in  prison;  and  yet,  when  he  turned  his 
back  on  the  grim  buildings  of  Dartmoor,  he  could  scarce- 
ly see  them  for  tears. 

He  left  friends  behind  those  stern  walls — friends  who 
would  feel  his  departure  as  an  irreparable  loss,  friends  for 
whom  his  heart  bled.  In  the  wide  world  into  which  he 
was  thrust  alone,  after  a  lifetime  spent  in  unlearning  its 
ways,  he  had  but  one  friend;  one  who  had  .seen  him  last 
in  the  flower  of  youth  and  intellect,  and  who,  in  spite  of 
her  long-tried  and  unswerving  devotion,  might  shrink 
from  the  wreck  he  now  was,  ruined  in  health,  shattered 
in  nerves,  and  with  blasted  prospects. 

These  thoughts  made  him  turn  a  wistful  gaze  upon  the 
purple  slopes  of  Dartmoor  whenever  a  turn  of  the  line 
brought  it  into  sight.  The  rapture  he  had  felt  in  free- 
dom on  his  temporary  escape,  nine  years  before,  could 
nevermore  throb  so  strongly  within  him.  Those  later 
years  had  wrought  more  cruel  effect  upon  him;  the  pri- 
vations of  that  brief  spell  of  freedom — which  neverthe- 
less was  in  his  memory  like  the  very  breath  of  heaven — 


TBE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  387 

and  the  illness  which  followed  them  had  more  surely 
sapped  his  strength.  His  captivity  had  been  more 
rigorous  after  that;  he  had  worn  irons.  The  routine  had 
now  more  effectually  numbed  his  faculties,  so  that  at  last 
it  had  grown  to  be  a  necessity;  and  now  that  he  found 
himself  thrown  on  his  own  resources,  and  dependent  on 
no  will  but  his  own,  he  was  like  a  lost  child,  half  fright-" 
ened  and  bewildered  by  the  pettiest  responsibilities  of 
life. 

He  dared  not  encourage  the  good  clergyman's  kindly 
attempts  at  general  conversation,  and  the  paper  he  lent 
him  was  as  if  written  in  an  unknown  tongue.  Who 
could  understand  the  Times  of  today,  if  the  events  of  the 
last  twenty  years  were  a  blank  to  him?  Empires  had  dis- 
appeared from  Europe  since  Everard's  incarceration; 
fresh  empires  had  risen;  English  society  and  English 
public  opinion  had  undergone  a  total  change;  English 
politics  had  been  radically  altered;  more  than  one  revo- 
lution had  been  accomplished;  old  landmarks  were  swept 
away;  the  world  had  made  mighty  strides  onward,  for 
better  or  for  worse;  and  of  all  this  he  knew  nothing. 

At  Exeter  he  felt  more  at  ease.  Leaving  the  station 
on  foot,  he  went  into  the  streets  of  the  ancient  city,  not 
heeding  the  cries  of  cabmen  and  hotel  touts,  not  dream- 
ing that  he  could  be  adressed  as  "Sir,"  who  had  so  long 
been  only  Xo.  62,  and  pleasantly  excited  to  find  himself 
moving  unhindered  among  crowds  of  free  fellow-crea- 
tures. The  cathedral  bells  were  pealing  merrily  for  some 
festival;  soldiers  w'ere  marching  with  bright  music, 
through  the  streets,  which  were  thronged  with  women 
and  children  in  light  summer  dresses.  How  beautiful 
they  all  looked,  after  the  ghastly  figures  of  the  convicts 
in  their  hideous  garb  of  uniform  shame!  and  how  deli- 
cious was  the  free  air  and  sense  of  motion  at  will! 

He  entered  the  first  tailor's  shop  and  got  a  suit  of 
ready-made  clothes,  which  he  put  on  there  and  then, 
not  unmindful  of  a  curious  smile  on  the  shopman's 
features  at  the  sight  of  the  gray  suit.  Here  also  he  pur- 
chased a  suitable  outfit  for  a  few  weeks;  then  he  got  a 
portmanteau,  and,  feeling  a  different  being  in  a  dark  and 
well-made  suit,  he  got  himself  some  boots  at  a  fashiona- 
ble bootmaker's;  and  then  went  to  some  dining-rooms 


288  THE   SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

and  ate  his  first  free  meal  with  rising  spirits,  and  was  no 
longer  startled  when  the  waiter  addressed  him  respect- 
fully, and  waited  on  his  behests  with  "Yes,  sir,"  and  "No, 
sir." 

When  he  returned  to  the  station  and  took  his  seat  in  a 
third-class  carriage  to  London,  he  looked  what  he  was,  a 
gentleman,  save  for  his  hands,  which  he  kept  carefully 
gloved.  He  had  many  travelling  companions  now,  hav- 
ing chosen  to  go  first-class  in  the  gray  suit  in  the  hope  of 
being  alone  and  unnoticed,  and  to  the  conversation  of 
these  he  listened  with  a  kind  of  awe;  for  none  of  them 
were  criminals — all  were  free,  and  they  spoke  of  things 
and  moved  in  a  life  of  which  he  had  long  been  ignorant. 

He  had  purchased  some  periodicals  with  a  strange  Joy 
in  the  novelty  and  freedom  of  the  act,  but  he  could  not 
bring  his  attention  to  bear  upon  them ;  his  mind  was  too 
full.  He  could  not  even  listen  to  the  conversation  of  his 
fellow-travellers,  which  had  at  first  such  a  strange  interest 
for  him. 

He  gazed  out  upon  the  swift-rolling  summer  landscape, 
and  rejoiced  in  the  roses  which  starred  the  passing  gar- 
dens in  June  luxury,  and  wondered  if  it  were  really  he. 
His  captivity  was  turned,  and  he  was  indeed  like  unto 
them  that  dream.  It  was  so  sweet,  and  yet  so  terribly 
sad.  Not  only  were  youth  and  strength  and  hope  gone, 
but  the  very  world  from  which  he  had  been  so  suddenly 
torn  was  almost  swept  away.  Leslie  was  dead,  and 
Marion  and  Mrs.  Maitland  and  his  father,  the  stout  old 
admiral,  and  they  had  never  known  that  he  was  innocent 
Did  they  know  now,  he  wondered,  and  could  they  bear 
the  thought  of  the  other's  guilt,  or  were  all  things  earthly 
to  them  as  if  they  had  never  been?  And  of  those  who 
remained,  how  much  of  the  old  selves  he  remembered 
still  lived?  The  long  years  had  had  no  power  to  touch 
Lilian's  loyalty,  but  what  had  they  done  to  herself? 

The  train  rushed  clattering  into  a  large  station  and 
stopped.  Some  of  his  fellow-travellers  got  out,  disinter- 
ring their  buried  parcels  and  wraps  with  cheerful  bustle. 
A  young  lady  begged  his  pardon  for  incommoding  him — 
how  strange  the  slight  courtesy  seemed! — others  wished 
him  good  morning,  and  he  returned  the  salutation  with 


THS   SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  289 

a  dim  feeling  of  transgression;  he  could  not  yet  realize 
that  he  might  speak  without  leave. 

A  girl  with  a  sad  face  offered  roses  at  the  windows,  and 
brightened  when  he  bought  some.  He  had  touched  no 
flowers  since  those  he  gave  to  Lilian  on  the  fatal  New 
Year's  Eve.  Those  were  virgin  white,  which  should  have 
been  red  with  blood;  these  were  warm  crimson  and  gold. 

It  was  dark  night  when  they  reached  London.  Ever- 
ard  scarcely  knew  what  to  do  in  the  tumult  and  din  of  a 
great  metropolitan  station.  At  last  he  found  himself 
and  his  brand-new  portmanteau  in  a  hansom,  driving 
toward  a  hotel  he  mentioned,  half  afraid  it  might  have 
disappeared  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

At  the  time  of  his  conviction  the  law  which  forfeited 
the  property  of  felons  was  still  in  force,  so  that  he  would 
have  been  penniless  had  not  the  admiral  left  him  an  equal 
share  with  his  other  children  at  his  death,  which  occurred 
some  five  years  back.  This  little  property — which  was, 
of  course,  in  the  hands  of  trustees — had  been  accumulat- 
ing during  those  rears,  and  would  now  afford  him  a  mod- 
erate income,  which  he  still  hoped  to  increase  by  the  ex- 
ercise of  his  profession.  He  was  to  see  the  late  admiral's 
man  of  business  on  the  morrow,  and  when  that  was  done 
he  scarcely  knew  where  to  turn. 

He  could  not  go  to  Lilian  with  the  prison  taint  still 
upon  him;  the  thought  of  that  was  unendurable.  She 
did  not  know  the  exact  date  at  which  he  was  to  be  set  at 
liberty,  so  he  decided  to  spend  a  week  or  two  in  getting 
accustomed  to  a  free  life,  in  ridding  himself  of  some  of 
his  enormous  ignorance  of  every-day  affairs,  and  in  purg- 
ing his  memory  of  prison  degradations.  Then  he  had 
messages  to  deliver  to  the  friends  of  his  fellow-prisoners, 
and  set  about  that  at  once. 

London  oppressed  him  with  its  immensity  and  tumult 
and  the  awful  sense  of  loneliness  which  it  produced;  so 
after  a  few  days  he  went  into  the  country,  resolving  to 
stop  wherever  fancy  prompted.  During  those  few  days 
he  had  looked  into  much  new  literature,  with  an  appalling- 
sense  of  being  left  far  behind  his  age.  The  medical  and 
scientific  journals  gave  him  the  keenest  stab:  science  had 
made  such  mighty  strides  without  his  aid,  and  the  theory, 
the  darling  theory  which  was  to  effect  a  revolution  in 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

medical  science,  had  already  been  formed  by  another  and 
accepted  by  the  v/orld. 

Perhaps  country  air  would  restore  his  shattered  nerves. 
There  is  no  nurse  or  healer  like  Nature ;  to  her  kind  arms 
he  would  flee  for  refuge.  But  along  that  very  line  he 
had  travelled  down  to  Malbourne  with  Cyril  nearly  twenty 
years  ago,  and  the  memory  of  it  tore  his  heart.  "An  as- 
cetic is  a  rake  turned  monk,"  he  had  told*  Cyril,  little 
dreaming  what  a  home-thrust  he  was  giving.  And  here 
was  the  massive  cathedral,  and  here  the  towers  of  Belmin- 
ster,  a  place  associated  with  scenes  so  agonizing.  Yet  he 
remembered  his  jest  to  Cyril  about  the  bishop. 

He  got  out  at  Belminster,  attracted  by  the  strange  fas- 
cination which  belongs  to  scenes  of  past  suffering,  and, 
leaving  his  things  at  the  station,  strolled  leisurely  down 
the  steep  street,  and  looked  with  infinite  compassion  at 
the  jail  in  which  he  had  endured  such  agony.  The  place 
was  not  altered;  people  might  have  been  strolling  about 
just  the  same  while  his  torture  was  going  on. 

There  was  the  lovely  old  Gothic  cross,  standing  a  soli- 
tary relic  of  dead  centuries,  and  wondering  silently  at  the 
feverish  present;  there  were  the  old  houses,  jutting  out 
upon  pillars  over  the  street  and  hiding  the  dark  shops; 
there,  finally,  was  the  hoary  cathedral,  girdled  about  by 
its  lofty  trees  and  its  green,  quiet  close,  into  which  he 
strolled  with  a  feeling  of  sweet  refreshment.  His  eyes 
rested  lovingly  on  the  pleasant  scene,  so  full  of  old  world 
associations,  so  suggestive  of  all  things  soothing  and 
sweet ;  a  place  in  which  one  must  think  of  past  things  and 
of  things  eternal,  and  yet  which  is  linked  so  harmoniously 
with  things  passing  and  the  little  life  of  today. 

He  strolled  into  the  gray,  vast,  echoing  interior,  and, 
sitting  down  opposite  the  open  door,  lost  himself  in  a 
pleasant  dream.  How  sweet  it  would  be  to  live  there 
under  the  great  minster's  shadow,  within  sound  of  the 
holy  bell;  to  lead  a  gentle,  holy,  uneventful  life,  pacing 
daily  that  rich  green  turf,  looking  on  those  great  trees 
and  red-roofed  houses,  and  on  the  pillared  cloister  yon- 
der, and  on  the  light-springing  arches  of  the  Deanery,  as 
one  passed  to  and  fro,  lowly,  perhaps,  but  calm  and  hap- 
py! Something  light  fluttered  between  the  slender  black 
pillars  of  the  Deanery  entrance.  It  was  a  young  lady  in 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MA1TLAND.  2gi 

a  gay  summer  dress,  who  passed  out  and  walked  along 
by  the  old  cloister  with  an  indescribable  grace  in  the  car- 
riage of  her  slim  figure. 

The  sight  of  her  youth  and  beauty  called  up  pleasant 
visions  of  sweet  and  tranquil  home  life — life  rich  with 
love  and  duty  and  adorned  with  culture  and  refinement; 
and  a  little  sigh  escaped  him  in  spite  of  himself,  when  he 
thought  of  the  possibilities  ot  lite,  and  remembered  what 
he  had  missed  in  his  long  agony.  People  began  to  stream 
in  slowly  by  twos  and  threes,  and  he  observed  that  the 
bells  were  chiming  languidly;  visitors  with  guide-books 
went  out  or  moved  choirward ;  a  dark,  thin  young  clergy- 
man, with  a  rapt  face  and  ascetic  lips,  ascended  the  choir- 
steps,  and  recalled  the  Cyril  of  twenty  years  ago  with 
strange  vividness;  the  great  organ  began  to  boom;  the 
choristers  paced  slowly  in,  heavenly  boy  faces  showing 
above  their  white  robes,  or  men  with  worn  and  rugged 
faces ;  the  bright  silk  hoods  of  the  clergy  gleamed  as  they 
passed;  evensong  began. 

Everard  did  not  dream  of  entering  the  choir;  the  idea 
of  mingling  with  others  on  equal  terms  even  in  an  act  of 
worship  was  as  yet  far  from  him.  He  felt  himself  a  dwell- 
er on  the  outskirts  of  humanity:  it  was  as  yet  a  great 
boon  to  be  allowed  merely  to  look  on  without  rebuke. 
So  the  solemn  words  and  heavenly  music  came  echoing 
beneath  the  dim  arches  brokenly  to  his  far-off  ears,  and 
their  peaceful  spell  drew  him  gradually  nearer  to  the 
choir. 

At  last  the  anthem  began,  and  his  soul  melted  within 
him  beneath  the  passion  of  the  full-voiced  strain,  and  he 
stole  silently  up  the  matted  steps  with  bowed  head,  his 
consciousness  merged  in  the  meaning  which  the  mellow 
voices  strove  with  conflicting  endeavor  to  make  clear. 
The  glorious  tumult  increased  till  it  dissolved  in  a  tri- 
umph of  harmony,  and  then  above  it,  like  a  lonely  sea- 
bird  soaring  over  a  sea  of  stormy,  foam-tipped  billows, 
there  rose  a  single  boy's  voice,  so  sweet  and  pure,  so  full 
of  unconscious  and  unutterable  pathos,  that  Everard 
trembled  as  he  heard  it,  and  stole  on  to  the  very  gates  of 
the  sanctuary  to  listen.  Higher  and  higher  the  solitary 
boy-voice  rose,  till  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  be  finally  lost 
in  some  clear  heaven  of  ineffable  sweetness ;  there  it  hov- 


2Q2 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


erred  and  paused,  and  then  descended,  rising  and  fall- 
ing again  upon  the  pinions  of  strong  melody,  till  it  fell 
at  length  half  wearied  into  the  sea  of  deep  and  mellow 
harmony. 

The  listener  outside  the  sanctuary  gate  gazed  in  a 
tumult  of  unspeakable  feeling,  not  knowing  what  memo- 
ries and  hopes  and  longings  the  beautiful  boy's  voice 
awakened  within  him,  but  vaguely  conscious  that  he  had 
stood  thus  before  in  some  far-off  forgotten  time,  seeing 
all  his  lost  youth  flash  by  him,  and  realizing  the  spell  of 
Lilian's  long-missed  presence  once  more. 

The  anthem  died  away,  and  Everard  came  to  himself, 
and  thought  how  unfitted  he  was  for  life,  with  a  nervous 
system  so  sensitive,  so  liable  to  escape  control,  and  he 
remembered  the  scorn  which  once  mingled  with  his  pity 
for  such  weaklings.  He  scorned  no  man  now. 

The  choirister  with  the  beautiful  voice  had  a  face  of  equal 
charm — a  face  from  which  Eveard  could  scarcely  avert 
his  eyes.  The  other  boys  looked  roguish  enough,  though 
they  were  very  well  behaved — pattern  choristers,  indeed; 
but  this  lad's  face  and  demeanor  had  a  singular  pathos, 
and  his  eyes,  instead  of  being  bent,  as  the  others  were,  on 
the  desk,  had  a  forward  or  upward  gaze  during  his  sing- 
ing. He  evidently  knew  all  his  music  by  heart. 

When  the  service  was  over  and  the  worshippers  had  left 
the  building,  Everard  strolled  down  the  nave,  looking  at 
different  monuments,  and  spoke  to  the  verger,  w'hose 
offer  to  guide  him  he  had  refused. 

"I  know  the  cathedral  well,"  he  said,  "but  I  have  not 
seen  it  for  many  years." 

"You  may  have  travelled  and  seen  a  sight  of  cathedrals 
since,  but  you  won't  see  many  to  beat  Belminster,"  said 
the  verger,  proudly. 

"Not  many;  and  it  is  in  better  order  than  in  former 
times.  And  what  a  very  well-behaved  choir!  I  suppose 
your  dean  is  a  good  man." 

"Yes,  sir;  the  dean  is  very  particular  about  the  cathe- 
dral. He  takes  an  interest  in  every  creature  about  it, 
too.  We  all  have  to  mind  our  p's  and  q's,  I  assure  you, 
and  we'd  do  anything  for  him.  He's  that  taking  in  his 
wavs.  to  be  sure."  • 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  393 

"And  who  is  your  dean?"  asked  Everard,  indifferently, 
as  he  was  turning  away. 

"Bless  my  soul  alive!"  exclaimed  the  verger;  "don't 
you  know  who  the  Dean  of  Belminster  is?  Excuse  me, 
sir,  but  where  have  you  been  not  to  have  heard  of  Dean 
Maitland?" 

Everard  was  glad  he  had  turned  away,  and  he  did  not 
reply  for  a  moment. 

"No  doubt  I  appear  very  ignorant,"  he  said  at  length, 
with  a  smile,  "but  I  have  not  been  near  Belminster  for 
this  twenty  years." 

"But  not  to  know  Dean  Maitland!  Why,  all  the  world 
knows  the  great  dean.  The  books  he  has  written,  the 
things  he's  done!  Nothing  can  be  done  without  Dean 
Maitland.  He's  the  greatest  preacher  in  the  Church  of 
England.  They're  going  to  make  him  Bishop  of  War- 
ham  soon.  Why,  bless  you,  sir,  when  Dean  Maitland 
preaches  in  Westminster  Abbey  extra  police  have  to  be 
put  on,  and  people  wait  outside  for  hours.  To  think  you 
never  heard  of  Dean  Maitland!"  and  the  verger  looked 
up  and  down  Everard,  scanning  him  as  if  he  were  some 
strange  natural  phenomenon. 

"The  greatest  preacher?"  repeated  Everard,  his  heart 
throbbing  painfully.  "What  is  his  Christian  name?" 

"The  greatest,  and  the  bishop,  Bishop  Oliver,  the 
Bishop  of  Belminster,  is  the  next,  and  some  think  he 
runs  the  dean  close,"  replied  the  verger,  with  satisfac- 
tion; "Christian  name,  Cyril.  You  should  hear  him 
preach,  sir,  you  should  indeed.  People  come  down  to 
Belminster  on  purpose.  He  preaches  tomorrow  in  the 
nave.  A  series  of  evening  lectures  to  working-men,  and 
the  dean  takes  his  turn  tomorrow." 

"I  will  come,"  said  Everard;  and  he  moved  away,  and 
stood  gazing  abstractedly  at  the  ancient  font,  consumed 
with  the  strangest  excitement. 

"It  is  very  old,  sir,"  said  a  sweet  voice  behind  him; 
and,  turning,  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  chor- 
ister who  sang  the  solo. 

He  was  a  slight,  delicate  lad.  some  ten  years  of  age. 
with  dark  hair  waved  over  his  pure  white  brow,  and 
beautiful  blue  eyes  gazing  with  a  strange  pathos  from  the 
well-featured  face;  and  the  singular  beauty  of  his  voice 


294  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

was  enhanced  by  the  purity  of  his  accent,  which  was  that 
of  a  gentleman. 

"Old  indeed,"  returned  Everard.  "Old Oliver  couldn't 
batter  that;  it  is  too  solid." 

"You  know,  of  course,  that  he  smashed  the  west  win- 
dow," said  the  lad,  pointing  to  the  great  window,  with 
its  singular  pattern,  formed  by  piecing  the  broken  frag- 
ments of  richly  colored  glass  together. 

Everard  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  moved  on,  the 
boy  accompanying  him,  and  discussing  the  different  ob- 
jects of  interest  with  singular  intelligence. 

"You  do  not  tire  of  the  cathedral,  though  you  sing  in 
it  daily?"  asked  Everard. 

"No,  I  never  tire  of  it,"  he  replied,  gazing  dreamily 
round;  "it  is  such  a  beautiful  place.  I  love  the  vastness 
of  it.  I  spend  hours  here.  It  is  my  home." 

He  had  insensibly  stolen  his  small  hand  into  Everard's, 
who  was  thrilled  deeply  by  the  soft,  warm  grasp,  and  he 
now  led  him  on  to  show  him  an  ancient  tomb. 

"Have  you  been  a  chorister  long?"  Everard  asked. 

"Only  since  we  came  to  Belminster  three  years  ago; 
then  I  was  the  smallest  boy  in  the  choir."  He  did  not 
go  to  school,  he  said,  in  reply  to  a  query;  he  had  a  tutor. 
"My  name  is  Maitland,"  he  added,  "Everard  Maitland." 

Everard's  hand  tightened  convulsively  over  the  child's 
slight  fingers,  arid  he  gazed  searchingly  in  his  face,  which 
betrayed  no  surprise  at  the  intent  gaze. 

"Ah !  the  dean's  son,"  he  said  after  a  long  pause. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  with  a  proud  little  air,  "the  dean's 
son.  Do  you  know  my  father?  Have  you  heard  him 
preach?" 

"Not  of  late." 

"He  is  a  very  good  father,"  said  the  boy,  "and  I  am 
his  only  son.  People  think  him  great,  but  he  is  better 
than  great.  He  is  good.  We  have  no  mother.  What 
time  is  it?"  he  added,  as  Everard  drew  out  his  watch  to 
conceal  the  tumult  that  was  stirring  within  him. 

Everard  silently  turned  the  dial  toward  him  for  answer. 

"I  can  hear  it  tick,"  said  the  child,  regretfully;  "but  I 
cannot  see  it." 

"Not  see  it!"  exclaimed  Everard,  in  surprise. 

"No,  sir;  I  am  blind.    You  are  surprised?"  he  added, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND,  295 

after  a  pause ;  "people  always  are.  I  was  born  blind,  and 
I  have  been  trained  to  be  as  independent  as  possible.  I 
show  it  more  in  a  strange  place.  I  know  every  inch  of  the 
cathedral,  I  love  it  so." 

"Blind!"  echoed  Everard  at  last;  "and  you  are  his  only 
son?" 

"His  only  son.  It  is  a  terrible  grief  to  him.  It  is  little 
to  me;  my  life  is  very  happy,  and  my  father  is  so  very 
kind.  And  they  let  me  sing  in  the  choir  and  play  the 
organ.  Few  boys  have  such  pleasures  as  I." 

"You  bear  your  affliction  manfully,"  said  Everard,  lay- 
ing his  hand  tenderly  on  the  child's  head  and  gazing 
thoughtfully  on  him  for  a  space.  "But  how  can  you  en- 
joy the  cathedral  if  you  cannot  see  its  beauty?" 

"I  can  feel  it.  I  have  heard  its  different  parts  so  often 
described,  and  I  know  its  history  so  well.  Then  I  can 
hear  by  the  echoes  how  vast  it  is,  and  how  lofty,  and  the 
way  in  which  the  music  rolls  about  it  describes  its  shape. 
I  could  feel  you  standing  at  the  font  just  now,  and  I  know 
when  you  are  looking  at  me.  I  knew  that  you  were  a 
good  man  the  moment  you  spoke.  Your  voice  is  familiar 
to  me.  You  see,  we  blind  people  have  other  senses  to 
make  up,  sir." 

The  child  smiled  as  he  said  this,  a  smile  that  touched 
Everard  to  his  heart's  core.  Cyril  and  Lilian  smiled  thus, 
but  the  child's  smile  had  a  sweetness  beyond  theirs,  one 
which  is  only  born  of  suffering. 

They  had  now  reached  the  open  door,  through  which 
entered  the  reflected  warmth  of  the  sunshine,  which  the 
blind  boy  said  he  could  feel,  and  here  they  parted. 

"Good-by,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  pressing  his  hand,  and 
directing  upon  him  the  strange  unaware  gaze  of  the  blind. 

"We  have  had  a  charming  talk/*  he  added,  in  Cyril's 
own  fascinating  manner. 

"Good-by,  dear  little  fellow,  and  God  bless  you,"  re- 
plied Everard,  returning  the  pressure  of  the  delicate  hand. 
"Stay,''  he  added,  as  the  child  stepped  out  into  the  sun- 
shine. "Had  you  not  a  brother  named  Ernest?" 

l'Oh,  yes,"  he  answerd;  "they  say  he  was  such  a  strong, 
healthy  boy.  He  died  when  I  was  a  baby.  My  poor 
father  has  lost  many  sons  and  daughters,  and  I  can  never 


2  g6  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

be  anything-  but  a  care  to  him.  He  has  only  my  sister  to 
comfort  him.  Good-by,  sir,  I  shall  be  late;"  and,  tak- 
ing off  his  hat  once  more,  he  sprang  down  the  steps  and 
across  the  pavement,  to  an  iron  railing  which  here  fenced 
the  turf.  Everard  watched  him  as  he  vaulted  it  easily, 
and  dashed,  as  seeing  boys  dash,  headlong  across  the 
green,  making  a  slight  turn  to  avoid  a  collision  with  a 
solemn  clergyman,  who  lifted  his  hat  to  him;  and  then 
flying  straight  under  the  slender  arches  of  the  Deanery 
entrance,  where  he  vanished  from  sight. 

"Poor  young  gentleman!"  said  the  verger,  who  was 
standing  behind  Everard,  clinking  a  shilling  the  child  had 
given  him.  "Nothing  pleases  him  so  much  as  showing 
the  cathedral  to  strangers,  and  keeping  his  blindness  from 
them.  Many  and  many  a  one  he's  took  in.  But  he  al- 
ways gives  a  verger  a  shilling  after  taking  a  party  round; 
he  wouldn't  take  a  man's  bread  out  of  his  mouth.  It's  a 
sore  trial  to  the  dean,  sir,  you  may  depend  upon  it.  It 
was  trouble  to  his  mother  caused  it,  they  say.  Just  before 
he  was  born  she  went  through  a  deal  in  her  mind,  and 
was  never  the  same  again.  And  that  affected  the  boy's 
nerves,  especially  the  optic  nerves,  and  he  was  born  blind. 
Pity,  isn't  it?  We  shall  miss  Master  Everard  when  the 
dean  is  Bishop  of  Warham." 

"No  doubt,"  said  Everard,  moving  abstractedly  away, 
his  eyes  riveted  on  the  Deanery;  "no  doubt." 

Lilian  had  gradually  ceased  to  mention  Cyril  in  her 
letters;  indeed,  since  Marion's  death,  she  had  not  men- 
tioned him  at  all,  and  Everard  had  never  during  the 
whole  of  his  imprisonment  named  the  name  of  the  man 
he  had  so  loved,  and  for  whom  he  had  suffered  so  cruelly. 
And  now  he  found  him  the  great  Dean  Maitland,  too 
great  to  be  merely  the  Dean  of  Belminister;  he  belonged 
apparently  to  the  higher  order  of  deans,  like  Dean  Swift 
and  Dean  Stanley,  and  was  moreover,  Bishop-elect  of 
Warham.  And  Warham  was  the  greatest  see  in  England; 
its  bishops  had  ranked  as  princes  in  olden  days.  There 
was  but  one  greater  dignity  in  the  Church — that  of  arch- 
bishop. Everard  paused  opposite  the  Deanery  and  looked 
long  upon  it,  while  a  singular  conflict  of  feelings  raged 
within  him. 

On  this  very  spot,  eighteen  years  ago,  Cyril  himself 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  397 

had  stood,  an  obscure  curate,  while  Everard  was  under- 
going his  terrible  ordeal  before  the  judge,  and  had  re- 
flected, in  spite  of  the  tumult  within  him,  upon  the  ad- 
vantages of  being  a  dean. 

He  had  looked  with  keen  outward  observation,  as 
Everard  was  looking  now,  on  the  majestic  pile  of  the 
gray  cathedral,  rising  above  the  sedate  red  roofs  and 
gables  of  the  quiet  and  dignified  close ;  on  the  same  elms 
and  limes,  leafless  then  in  the  March  sunshine,  and  had 
heard  the  rooks  cawing  in  their  lofty  circles  overhead, 
with  the  same  suggestions  of  boyhood  and  home  and  the 
breezy  downs  about  Malbourne;  there  he  had  stood, 
though  Everard  did  not  know  it,  and  fought  an  inward 
battle  in  which  his  soul's  best  powers  were  overthrown. 

Some  such  battle  raged  within  Everard  now.  He 
thought  of  his  long  agony,  and  the  crimes  which  caused 
it;  he  thought  of  his  heart's  best  friendship,  and  the 
treachery  which  betrayed  it;  he  repeated  to  himself  with 
various  intonations  of  scorn  and  indignation,  "Dean 
Maitland,  Bishop  of  Warham ;"  he  thought  of  the  guile- 
less child  with  his  angel  voice  and  his  life-long  affliction, 
he  thought  of  his  own  broken  health  and  ruined  life;  he 
thought  of  Lilian  wasting  her  youth  in  loneliness,  and 
asked  himself  how  he  could  forgive  the  traitor  for  whose 
crime  he  had  suffered — the  traitor  who  dressed  in  fine 
linen,  and  dwelt  in  palaces  among  the  greatest  in  the 
land,  while  the  betrayed  wore  his  heart  out  in  a  prison, 
clothed  in  the  garb  of  shame,  and  herded  with  the  scum 
and  off-scouring  of  vice.  He  could  not  bear  these  dis- 
tracting thoughts;  he  turned  with  a  gesture  of  fierce  in- 
dignation, and,  striding  hurriedly  along  the  close,  passed 
beneath  the  Gothic  gateway,  in  whose  angle  was  niched  a 
tiny  church,  passed  along  amid  a  crowd  of  happy  school 
boys  in  front  of  the  college,  and  did  not  breathe  freely 
till  he  found  himself  once  more  in  the  bustling  High 
Street 


298  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Deanery  drawing  room  looked  out  upon  a  soft 
stretch  of  lawn,  partly  shaded  by  some  magnificent  trees, 
and  bounded  by  a  delicious  old  garden  with  warm  red 
walls,  on  which  fruit  was  ripening  in  the  July  sun.  The 
mullioned  casements,  with  their  diamond  panes,  stood 
open  to  let  in  the  sunny  air  laden  with  the  scent  of  car- 
nations, roses,  and  mignonette.  All  that  refined  taste, 
backed  by  a  long  purse,  could  do  toward  making  a  room 
beautiful  and  suggestive  of  art  and  culture,  as  well  as 
perfectly  comfortable,  had  been  done  to  this  room, 
which,  as  everybody  knew,  had  been  arranged  by  the 
dean  and  his  twin  sister.  Nor  did  the  apartment  lack 
the  crowning  grace  of  a  charming  mistress;  the  dean's 
only  daughter,  a  girl  of  fifteen  of  sixteen,  but  apparently 
much  older. 

She  sat,  becomingly  dressed  in  some  light,  fresh  mate- 
rial, near  an  open  casement  by  a  low  table,  on  which  a 
tea-service  was  placed,  and  was  talking  in  the  liquid 
Maitland  voice  to  several  ladies  and  three  young  and 
seemingly  unmarried  men,  two  of  whom  were  clergymen, 
while  the  third,  the  evident  object  of  the  black-coat's  dis- 
like, which  he  as  evidently  returned,  had  something  about 
him  which  proclaimed  the  dashing  hussar.  He  an- 
swered to  the  name  of  Lord  Arthur. 

"Benson,"  said  Miss  Maitland,  addressing  a  servant, 
"tell  the  dean  that  I  insist  upon  his  coming  in  to  tea. 
Say  who  are  here.  It  would  serve  him  right,  Lady 
Louisa,"  she  added,  "if  I  got  you  to  go  and  rout  him  out 
of  his' den." 

"My  dear  child,  the  mere  suggestion  terrifies  me!"  re- 
turned the  lady.  "Imagine  the  audacity  of  rushing  in 
upon  the  dean,  when  he  might  be  making  one  of  his 
lovely  sermons  or  his  clever  books!" 

"By  the  way,"  interposed  one  of  the  curates,  "what  an 
appreciative  notice  there  is  in  this  week's  Guardian  of 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  299 

the  dean's  'Epistle  to  the  Romans!'     Did  you  see  it, 
Miss  Maitland?" 

"Oh,  you  don't  mean  to  say  he  is  as  clever  as  all  that, 
to  make  a  new  Epistle  to  the  Romans!"  exclaimed  a  very 
young  lady,  whose  simplicity  was  greatly  admired. 

The  door  now  opened,  and  the  dean  appeared  among 
his  guests,  making  each  feel  that  he  or  she  was  the 
special  object  of  his  welcoming  words  and  smiles.  After 
this  greeting,  his  glance  ran  anxiously  around  the  room 
and  across  the  garden  in  search  of  something  that  he 
missed.  "Where  is  Everard?"  he  then  asked. 

"Probably  in  the  cathedral,"  replied  Marion.  "He  has 
not  returned  from  even-song." 

"You  were  not  at  even-song,  Mr.  Dean,"  said  a  lady. 
"It  is  a  pity,  for  Everard  excelled  himself  in  the  anthem.'' 

"He  did  indeed,"  chimed  in  the  young  curate  with  the 
rapt  face.  "I  never  heard  anything  truer  or  sweeter  than 
that  high  C  of  his." 

"Poor  dear  child!  his  voice  is  a  great  consolation  to 
him",  sighed  the  dean,  toying  comfortably  with  his  tea- 
spoon. 

"I  wonder  if  that  voice  will  last?"  asked  Lord  Arthur. 
"Of  course,  I  mean,  will  it  change  into  a  good  man's 
voice?" 

"Probably  with  health  and  good  management.  So 
many  good  boy-trebles  are,  strained  by  overwork,  and 
crack  hopelessly  at  the  change,"  replied  the  father. 

"Now,  Lady  Louisa,  begin  your  seige,"  said  the  young 
hostess.  "If  you  don't  do  everything  she  asks  you,  papa, 
you  will  get  no  more  tea,  remember." 

"This  is  alarming,"  smiled  the  dean.  "Lady  Louisa, 
I  appeal  to  your  generosity  not  to  exact  too  much  from  a 
helples  victim." 

"Pile  on  the  agony,  Aunt  Louisa,"  cried  Lord  Arthur. 
"  'Vae  victis!'  remember." 

"Your  nephew's  war  cry.  The  ruthless  soldier  flings 
his  sword  into  the  scale,"  said  the  dean. 

"Yes,  and  I'll  fling  myself  after  it,  if  you  would  only 
come  to  Dewhurst  next  week,"  added  the  hussar.  "You've 
never  seen  the  old  place,  dean,  and  my  father  is  dying  to 
have  you  there,  and  so  is  my  mother.'' 


300 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


"And  your  aunt,"  added  Lady  Louisa,  laughing;  "not 
to  mention  yourself."  And  she  proffered  her  request,  in 
the  form  of  an  invitation  from  her  sister-in-law  to  the 
dean  and  his  daughter  to  dine  and  sleep  at  the  ancient 
historic  ducal  castle  one  day  in  the  following  week. 

"There,  papa,"  said  Marion  with  pretty  imperiousness; 
"all  you  have  to  do  is  to  name  the  day." 

"Alas!"  sighed  her  father,  "next  week  is  quite  filled 
up." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  come  next  week,"  urged  Lady 
Louisa.  "We  shall  be  alone  then,  and  able  to  enjov  you. 
Indeed,  the  duchess  will  never  forgive  you  if  you  do  not 
come." 

"To  incur  the  duchess'  displeasure  grieves  me  to  the 
heart,"  replied  the  dean. 

"Also  mine,"  added  the  lady,  whom  some  people  held 
to  be  well  disposed  to  wed  the  widowed  ecclesiastic. 
She  was  about  five-and-thirty,  and  of  majestic  presence, 
if  not  surprisingly  well  favored. 

"That,"  he  returned,  "would  reduce  me  to  absolute 
despair;  yet  I  am  firm.  I  am  tied  to  the  stake." 

It  was  while  the  dean  was  being  thus  implored,  coaxed, 
and  threatened,  and  while  one  or  two  people  who  would 
have  been  ready  to  depart  this  life  in  peace  after  an  invi- 
tation to  the  great  duke's  show-place  were  listening  with 
unspeakable  envy,  that  a  servant  stole  up  to  the  dean  and 
appeared  anxious  to  attract  his  attention. 

"Well,  Benson?"  he  asked  at  length,  having  disposed  of 
the  question  of  the  visit. 

"A  young  gentleman,  sir,"  said  the  man,  in  a  low 
tone — "refuses  to  give  his  name;  says  it  is  private  busi- 
ness of  importance." 

"Why  did  you  not  say  I  was  engaged?" 

"I  did,  sir.     He  said  his  business  was  urgent." 

"Let  him  wait  in  the  library." 

"I  wonder  how  they  make  bishops,  Mr.  Dean?'*  asked 
Lady  Louisa,  mischievously.  "Do  they  send  messengers 
post-haste  to  offer  mitres  upon  their  knees  just  when  peo- 
ple are  having  tea  comfortably?" 

The  dean  smiled  a  pleased  smile,  and  observed  that  he 
had  hitherto  had  no  experience  of  being  made  a  bishop; 
and  a  lady  present  remarked  that  a  certain  paper  had 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


301 


mentioned  his  acceptance  to  the  see  of  Warham  as  a  fact, 
and  further  ventured  to  ask  if  the  journal  in  question  was 
right. 

The  dean  smiled  again.  "A  man  who  declines  such 
an  office  when  duly  chosen  by  the  rightful  authorities 
incurs  a  tremendous  responsibility,"  he  said,  with  unusual 
gravity;  and  the  rumor  immediately  went  forth  that  he 
had  accepted. 

He  then  withdrew  with  an  apology.  "Perhaps  we  had 
better  not  keep  the  mitre  waiting  too  long,  Lady  Louisa," 
he  observed  to  that  lady,  with  his  peculiar  smile,  as  he 
went  out. 

He  reflected  as  he  left  the  room,  that  he  might  do 
worse  than  marry  Lady  Louisa;  also  that  Lord  Arthur, 
who  though  a  younger  son,  was  rich  enough  to  marry  as 
he  pleased,  undoubtedly  meant  business  with  regard  to 
Marion.  Lady  Louisa  was  amiable,  accomplished,  not 
dowerless,  pleasing,  and  of  a  suitable  age.  What  could  a 
man  want  more?  The  Bishop  of  Warham  and  Lady  Lou- 
isa Maitland  sounded  well.  And  yet  the  bishop  of  War- 
ham,  leading  a  life  of  widowed  loneliness  because  his 
conscience  put  the  narrowest  meaning  on  the  phrase 
"husband  of  one  wife,"  might  have  more  power  over 
men's  minds.  But  then  Dean  Maitland  belonged  to  that 
class  of  men  to  whom  single  blessedness  is  a  curse,  and 
his  six  years'  wifeliness  had  weighed  sorely  upon  him, 
and  he  had  but  two  children,  one  hopelessly  afflicted. 

Reaching  his  study,  he  rang  the  bell.  "Where  is  Mr. 
Obermann?"  he  asked  of  the  servant,  meaning  his  son's 
tutor. 

"Out,  sir." 

"And  Miss  Mackenzie?" — Marion's  governess  and 
companion. 

"Out,  sir.     Her  Girls'  Friendly  Meeting  day." 

"Which  that  young  rascal,  Arthur,  well  knew," 
thought  the  dean.  Then  he  ordered  that  a  maid  should 
search  the  cathedral  and  close  for  the  blind  boy,  keeping 
him  in  sight,  but  not  accosting  him,  unless  he  should 
break  his  bounds,  which  were  the  cathedral  precincts,  so 
careful  was  the  dean  of  his  only  son.  "Show  the  young 
man  in  here,  Benson,"  he  said  in  conclusion. 

It  never  struck  any  visitor,  much  less  this  unsophisti- 


302  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

cated  youth,  that  the  dean's  easy  pose  in  his  library  chair 
by  his  writing  table,  which  was  so  placed  that  the  light 
from  the  lattice  fell  sideways  from  behind  him,  leaving 
him  in  the  complete  shadow  of  the  rather  dark  wain- 
scoted room,  yet  fully  illuminating  his  books  and  papers 
and  the  chair  fronting  him,  in  which  he  motioned  his 
unknown  guest  to  take  a  seat,  was  a  calculated  one ;  but 
it  certainly  had  uncommon  advantages,  since  not  a  quiver 
of  the  penitent's  lip,  not  a  line  of  his  face  or  a  movement 
of  his  body  was  lost,  while  the  priest's  countenance  was 
but  dimly  seen  in  the  shade. 

Since  the  production  of  his  popular  devotional  work, 
"The  Secret  Penitent,"  Dean  Maitland's  ghostly  counsel 
had  been  sought  by  men  and  women  from  far  and  near, 
chiefly  from  far,  and  chiefly,  though  the  gentle  reader 
will  probably  doubt  this  assertion,  by  men.  These  men 
were  desirous  of  remaining  unknown,  and  sometimes 
gave  names  which  they  said  were  assumed,  sometimes 
none  at  all. 

Very  strange  tales  had  been  told  in  that  pleasant  little 
study,  in  the  sight  of  that  finely  carved  ebony  and  ivory 
crucifix  and  those  beautiful  proof  engravings  of  cele- 
brated religious  pictures,  holy  families,  ascensions,  con- 
spicuously among  them  a  copy  of  the  Gethsemane  which 
hung  in  the  study  at  Malbourne.  Cyril  imagined  that 
the  nameless  youth  was  another  of  these  penitents,  and 
received  him  with  a  certain  tenderness  in  his  stately  man- 
ner, which  he  knew  was  well  calculated  to  unlock  the 
sealed  recesses  of  the  heart. 

It  was  a  tall,  handsome,  well-built  youth,  whose  features 
and  expression  kindled  a  vague  disquiet  in  the  dean's 
breast,  such  as  irrational  mental  discomfort  as  imagina- 
tive people  experience  at  times,  and  distinctively  fear  to 
analyze. 

He  entered  the  room  with  a  confident  step  and  bearing, 
looking  boldly  forward  with  an  almost  arrogant  self-asser- 
tion in  his  gaze,  which  was  quickly  subdued  by  the  digni- 
fied courtesy  of  Dean  Maitland — a  man  with  whom,  de- 
spite his  unvarying  politeness,  which  was  almost  courtli- 
ness, no  man  ever  dared  take  a  liberty.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  youth,  entering  with  his  bristles  all  on  end,  had  ex- 
pected hostility  or  at  least  repression,  and,  receiving  a 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


3°3 


suave  cordiality  instead,  was  for  the  moment  confounded. 
He  felt  himself  enveloped  in  a  blue  radiance  from  the 
dean's  strangely  beautiful  and  powerful  eyes,  which 
searched  him,  measured  him,  explored  him  to  his  remot- 
est recesses,  and  reduced  all  his  pretentions  to  nothing. 

A  man  sitting-  at  a  table  with  the  implements  of  his 
daily  occupation  before  him  has  a  great  advantage  over 
one  who  sits  unoccupied  in  a  chair  in  the  full  light,  for 
the  express  purpose  of  talking.  This  the  dean  knew,  and 
lie  never  committed  the  error  of  walking  into  a  room  to 
begin  an  interview  with  a  person  he  intended  to  influence, 
though  no  man  knew  better  than  he  how  to  walk  into  a 
room. 

Sitting  at  ease  in  his  wooden  chair,  with  the  open  lat- 
tice, picturesquely  tangled  with  invading  roses  and  ivy, 
behind  him;  with  his  melodious  voice  and  refined  accent 
new  to  his  listener's  ears ;  with  his  graceful  limbs  showing 
to  advantage  in  his  black  dress  with  shorts  and  gaiters; 
and  with  his  well-formed  hands  in  harmony  with  his 
severely  cut  features,  which,  however,  were  only  dimly 
seen,  he  cast  a  spell  over  his  visitor;  he  suggested,  fur- 
ther, that  harmonious  blending  of  aristocratic  piety  which 
is  peculiar  to  the  English  dean,  and  perhaps  to  the  French 
abbe  before  the  Revolution,  and  which  had  so  fascinated 
his  own  youthful  gaze.  He  made  a  picture  in  the  oak 
wainscoted  room,  with  its  latticed  casements,  ecclesiastic 
adornments  and  suggestions  of  honored  antiquity,  which 
quite  overpowered  the  unaccustomed  gaze  of  the  younger 
man,  who  never  forgot  it. 

The  dean's  practiced  eye  soon  saw  that  his  visitor  was 
not  a  gentleman,  though  near  being  one.  He  was  ill 
dressed  in  a  light,  badly-made  suit,  which  hung  loosely 
upon  him,  and  yet  became  him.  A  crimson  scarf  was 
fastened  carelessly  about  his  neck  by  a  flashing  pin,  and 
that  also  well  became  his  dark  and  handsome  features. 
His  strong  hands  were  brown  and  large,  but  well  formed. 
He  vised  his  straw  hat  to  emphasize  what  he  said.  He 
was  full-grown,  but  so  young  that  his  face  was  smooth, 
save  for  the  slight  indication  of  a  moustache.  "He  is 
quite  honest,"  the  dean  thought. 

"I  come  from  America,"  he  began,  abruptly,  in  a  mel- 
low and  powerful  voice. 


3°4 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


"You  come  from  a  country  of  which  a.  man  may  be 
proud,"  replied  the  dean,  in  a  tone  which  made  men  love 
him;  "and  you  kindly  honor  me  with  a  visit?" 

"In  plain  words,  sir,  what  do  I  want?"  broke  in  the 
youth.  "I  want  to  be  a  gentleman." 

"A  most  laudable  ambition,"  returned  the  other,  smil- 
.  ing. 

"I  want  to  go  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge.  Cambridge  I 
would  prefer,  because  you  were  there." 

He  acknowledged  that  compliment  with  a  slight  bow. 

"My  father  was  a  gentleman,"  continued  the  lad,  in  his 
jerkey  and  headlong  fashion ;  "but  my  mother  was  not." 

"A  man's  mother,"  returned  the  dean,  in  his  plaintive 
voice,  "is  more  usually  a  lady." 

"Oh,  you  are  laughing  at  me!  But  I  am  English- 
born,  and  was  brought  up  a  British  subject  in  the  Domin- 
ion. "My  name,"  he  continued,  with  some  agitation,  "is 
Benjamin  Lee." 

He  looked  earnestly  on  the  face  in  the  shadowed  cor- 
ner, but  he  did  not  see  the  sudden  and  quickly  subdued 
quiver  in  the  dean's  lip.  He  was  aware,  however,  that  a 
change  had  taken  place  in  his  face  and  demeanor. 

"A  very  good  name,"  he  returned,  in  the  same  dulcet 
tones ;  "a  very  usual  English  name." 

"I  was  born  in  Malbourne,"  the  young  man  went  on. 
with  an  increased  sonorousness  of  voice  and  intensity  of 
gaze.  "My  mother's  name  was  Alma  Lee.'1 

"Indeed.  I  remember  your  mother  well.  Is  she  liv- 
ing still?" 

"She  is,  and  I  bring  a  letter  from  her.  But  that  is  not 
what  I  want  to  say.  My  mother  was  a  deeply-wronged 
woman,  and  she  never  complained.  The  business,  Dean 
Maitland,  is  just  this:  My  father  has  done  nothing  for 
me ;  all  has  fallen  upon  my  mother.  She  has  had  me  well 
educated  for  her  means,  and  wanted  me  to  go  into  busi- 
ness. But  I  am  ambitions ;  I  wish  to  make  a  figure  in  the 
world — to  be,  as  I  said,  a  gentleman,  for  1  feel  the  good 
blood  in  my  veins,  and  I  am  determined  to  have  my  right, 
and  to  claim  from  my  father  what  he  is  well  able  to  give 
.  me — a  university  education  and  a  start  in  life." 

"Indeed!"  said  the  dean,  in  an  icy  tone. 

"And,  therefore,"  proceeded  the  youth,  springing  to 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  305 

his  feet  the  more  to  emphasize  his  words,  "I  come  to  you, 
because  I  am  your  son!" 

The  word  "son"  he  delivered  as  if  dealing  a  blow,  and 
he  evidently  expected  his  hearer  to  recoil  beneath  this 
tremendous  assertion;  but  he  was  disappointed. 

The  dean's  fine-cut  features  indeed  grew  pale  in  the 
dusk,  and  there  was  sudden  deepening  of  tint  in  his  eyes ; 
his  lips  also  met  with  a  stern  compression.  But  of  this 
the  young  man  saw  nothing,  and  no  other  sign  of  emo- 
tion betrayed  the  tumult  that  raged  so  madly  within  him 
at  the  sound  of  that  deadly  monosyllable. 

"Calm  yourself,  my  friend;  pray  be  seated  again,"  he 
said,  in  cool  and  silvery  tones.  "Since  when,  may  I  ask, 
have  you  suffered  from  this  distressing  delusion?" 

It  was  now  the  younger  man's  turn  to  be  aghast.  The 
coolness  with  which  this  startling  assertion  was  received 
utterly  confounded  him,  and  he  dropped,  with  a  vacuous 
stare,  into  his  seat,  mutering  some  queer  Yankee  objurga- 
tion. 

"Delusion!"  he  ejaculated  at  length. 

"It  is  a  very  usual  form  of  mental  disease  to  imagine 
one's  self  the  son  of  some  eminent  person,"  observed  the 
dean,  in  the  indifferent  tone  of  one  uttering  a  mild  plati- 
tude. "Are  you  at  present  under  mental  treatment?" 

"No,  sir,"  returned  the  lad,  regaining  his  mental  poise; 
.  "I  am  as  sound  in  mind  and  body  as  man  can  possibly 
be ;  and  I  know  myself  to  be  your  son,  and  I  am  here  to 
claim  my  rights  as  such." 

"The  facts  of  your  birth  are  well  known  in  Mai- 
bourne,"  continued  the  dean,  in  the  same  indifferent  tone. 
"They  are  such  as  reverence  for  parents — a  virtue,  I  fear, 
not  inculcated  in  your  adopted  country — should  lead  you 
to  conceal,  and,  if  possible,  forget  1  remember  the  cir- 
cumstances fully.  I  baptized  you  myself — that  is,  if  you 
are  the  person  you  claim  to  be." 

"I  am  not  surprised  that  you  should  disown  me  before 
the  world,"  said  the  youth;  "and  I  own  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  speak  upon  the  subject  without  some  irreverence 
unbecoming  a  son ;  but  I  bid  you  ask  your  conscience,  sir, 
whose  fault  it  is  that  I  cannot  refer  to  my  birth  without 
imputing  blame  to  my  parents?  I  bid  you  further  ask 
your  conscience  how  you  are  to  answer  at  the  bar  of 


306 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


Divine  Justice,  if  you  add  to  the  sin  which  brought  me 
into  the  world,  a  fatherless  outcast,  with  the  instincts  of 
a  higher  rank  warring  with  the  barren  necessities  of  his 
life,  the  further  sin  of  neglecting  the  responsibilities  you 
rashly  incurred.  Oh,  I  have  no  legal  rights — that  I  know 
well;  but  have  I  no  natural  rights — I  who  have  the  blood 
of  an  ancient  family  in  my  veins,  the  instincts  of  a  long 
line  of  gentlemen?  Have  I  no  rights  in  the  sight  of  Him 
whose  eternal  laws  are  broken  by  the  sin  which  gave  rise  ' 
to  my  being,  and  of  which  I  was  entirely  innocent?" 

It  was  a  strange  reversal  of  parts,  the  son  admonishing 
the  father,  the  layman  rebuking-  the  priest,  the  supposed 
penitent  accusing  the  confessor;  but  the  youth's  fiery 
words  struck  home,  and  the  dean  quivered  visibly  beneath 
them,  and  for  the  moment  he  could  summon  no  reply  to 
his  ashen  lips. 

"I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  distress  you,  sir,"  contin- 
ued the  young  man,  with  some  compunction,  "but  you 
will  see  on  reflection  that  I  ask  nothing  unreasonable.  I 
merely  ask  you  to  repair  the  wrong  of  my  birth — or, 
rather,  to  fulfill  the  obligations  incumbent  on  a  parent.  I 
have  grown  to  manhood  with  no  aid  or  recognition  from 
you.  I  am  alone  in  the  world ;  for  my  mother  has  a  mor- 
tal disease,  and  has  come  home  only  to  die.  I  only  ask 
for  this  start  in  life,  which  you  must  be  well  able  to  give ;  I 
ask  no  further  recognition.  Believe  me,  sir,  the  time  may 
come,  when  you  will  be  glad  to  have  some  claim  on  the 
duty,  if  not  the  affection,  of  a  son,  and  I  am  not  ungrate- 
ful." 

The  dean  rose  to  his  feet,  quivering.  "Silence!"  he 
cried,  in  deep  tones  of  compelling  intensity.  "I  cannot 
bear  this,"  he  added,  in  a  voice  of  anguish,  which  escaped 
him  against  his  will.  "This  is  intolerable,  to  be  insulted 
in  one's  own  house!  Go,  sir,  and  remember  that  in  this 
country  conduct  so  outrageous  as  yours  is  likely  to  lead 
you  to  imprisonment  in  a  lunatic  asylum." 

Now  that  he  was  standing  he  seemed  to  be  gradually 
regaining  the  mastery  of  himself,  which  for  the  moment 
he  had  lost.  Young  Lee  rose,  but  did  not  withdraw. 

"I  go,"  he  replied.  "I  have  said  enough  for  the  pres- 
ent, but  you  will  hear  of  me  again  until  I  gain  my  will. 
In  the  meantime,  here  is  the  letter  my  mother  bid  me 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  307 

deliver  into  your  own  hands,  and  which  needs  an  answer." 

The  dean  took  the  letter  with  an  inward  shudder  at 
the  sight  of  it,  and  brought  out  some  glasses,  which  he 
affected  to  wipe  and  arrange  before  reading  it,  though  in 
reality  he  needed  no  glasses ;  he  only  wanted  to  gain  time 
and  composure. 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Lee,"  he  observed,  quietly,  "your 
mother  married,  I  believe,  some  groom  before  leaving 
England.  Is  he  living?" 

"She  married  Charles  Judkins,  who  was  a  kind  step- 
father* to  me.  He  died  some  years  ago,  leaving  my 
mother  and  myself  well  provided  for." 

"Your  mother,  then,  has  no  other  children?" 

"None,  sir." 

The  dean  had  at  last  arranged  the  glasses  and  unfolded 
the  letter,  giving  one  swift  glance  at  his  visitor,  who  had 
walked  up  to  one  of  the  engravings,  a  sweet  and  guileless 
Madonna  with  a  thoughtful  child,  and  was  examining  it 
with  interest.  Nevertheless,  the  dean  shaded  his  face 
from  the  light  as  he  read. 

The  room  was  very  still,  and  pleasant  sounds  stole  in 
through  the  open  lattice.  A  great  bee  was  humming 
about  the  roses  and  honeysuckle  just  outside;  a  blackbird 
woke  up  from  its  afternoon  drowse  and  began  fluting  his 
liquid  vespers;  the  cathedral  clock  proclaimed  the  hour 
in  deep  booming  tones,  and  all  the  bells  in  the  city 
echoed  it  with  varying  cadence;  young  voices  came 
through  the  sunny  air  of  the  garden,  and  the  stranger 
saw  a  party  playing  at  tennis  below;  a  girl's  clear  laugh 
rang  out  in  true  heart-music,  and  was  followed  by  a 
man's.  It  was  Marion  laughing  at  some  absurd  mistake 
on  the  part  of  the  love-blind  Lord  Arthur,  who  was  ready 
to  laugh  with  her.  The  dean  meanwhile  read  on  in 
silence. 

The  young  man  grew  impatient,  and  longed  to  sooth 
his  soul  with  a  hearty  whistle,  to  which  his  full  red  lips 
rounded  themselves.  He  got  to  the  end  of  the  engrav- 
ings, and  turned  once  more  to  the  figure  at  the  table ;  but 
the  dean  was  still  reading,  statue-like,  with  his  face  acci- 
dentally shaded  by  his  hand,  though  he  never  turned  a 
page  of  the  brief  letter  of  one  sheet.  The  picture  he 
made  sitting  thus  beneath  the  lattice,  through  which  some 


308  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

long  golden  bars  of  sunshine  were  now  stealing,  re- 
mained upon  the  young  man's  memory  forever,  though 
he  did  not  hear  the  quick  subdued  breathing  of  the 
reader,  or  see  the  chill  drops  upon  his  tortured  brow. 

Within  a  stone's  throw  of  that  lattice  one  of  the  can- 
ons was  standing  on  a  short  ladder,  tending  a  peach  tree 
on  his  garden  wall,  thus  seeking  a  pleasant  distraction 
from  the  abstruse  Hebrew  studies  in  which  he  had  been 
buried  all  the  day.  His  wife  stood  in  the  pathway  by  the 
sunny  border,  where  the  bees  were  humming  luxuriously 
over  their  luscious  thieving,  and  looked  on  at  his  labors. 

"I  had  it  from  the  dean  myself,  Edmund,"  she  was  say- 
ing, "this  very  afternoon." 

"Well,  my  dear,"  he  replied,  rather  indistinctly  on  ac- 
count of  the  strips  of  cloth  he  held  in  his  mouth,  "you  will 
now  have  the  satisfaction  of  repeating  it  all  over  the  close. 
Bishop  of  Warham,  eh?  Maitland  is  a  lucky  fellow,  and 
about  as  ignorant  as  that  cat" — pointing  to  a  fine  grimal- 
kin, who  was  lazily  watching  his  master.  "But  scholar- 
ship goes  for  nothing  in  these  radical  days." 

"I  am  sure  he  will  make  a  delightful  bishop,"  said  the 
lady;  "and  who  knows  what  old  togy  we  may  get  at  the 
deanery  now?  Some  old  trump,  with  his  nose  buried  in  a 
book  all  day,  perhaps." 

"When  not  perched  on  a  ladder,"  laughed  the  canon. 
"Well,  who  wouldn't  have  the  gift  of  the  gab  like  Mait- 
land? Lucky  fellow,  to  be  sure!" 

The  letter  which  took  so  loner  to  read  ran  as  follows: 

"I  am  come  home  to  die,  and  I  wish  to  see  you  once 
more  first.  I  promised  never  to  betray  you,  and  swore 
away  an  innocent  man's  character  to  shield  you,  and  1 
have  never  had  a  happy  hour  since.  I  cannot  undo  all 
the  wrong  I  have  done  for  your  sake,  but  I  can  and  must 
clear  this  man  who  never  did  me  harm.  I  cannot  die  in 
peace  till  I  have  righted  him.  Can  I  do  it  without  hurt- 
ing you?  Come  to  me  for  Heaven's  sake;  my  days  are 
numbered.  My  son  bears  this.  He  knows  his  parentage, 
but  nothing  more.  He  is  a  good  lad. 

"Alma  Judkins.' 

At  last  the  dean  lifted  his  head  and  questioned  the 
youth  with  regard  to  his  mother's  illness  and  present 
abode,  and  learned  in  reply  that  she  was  suffering  from 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  309 

some  fatal  internal  malady,  which  had  become  suddenly 
worse  in  consequence  of  a  fall  in  the  Belminster  street, 
and  that  she  had  been  admitted  to  the  paying  ward  of  the 
local  hospital,  whence  there  was  no  probability  of  her  is- 
suing alive.  . 

"You  take  your  mother's  extremity  easily,  young  man," 
said  the  dean. 

But  the  youth  replied  that  he  had  been  expecting  the 
end  for  so  long  that  it  no  longer  agitated  him,  yet  his 
eyes  filled  withe  tears  as  he  spoke.  The  dean  then  took  a 
pen  and  slowly  indited  a  few  sentences,  which  he  gave  to 
the  young  man,  who  took  the  paper,  and  withdrew  with  a 
bow,  which  his  host  very  frigidly  returned. 

No  sooner  had  the  door  closed  upon  the  young  fellow's 
stalwart  form  than  Cyril  dropped  into  his  chair,  and, 
burying  his  face  in  his  hands,  groaned  heavily,  shudder- 
ing from  head  to  foot.  If  he  could  have  dreamed  this  ter- 
rible moment  twenty  years  ago,  would  that  handsome 
stripling  ever  have  seen  the  light?  If  any  man  could  be 
brought  face  to  face  with  the  embodied  results  of  one  sin 
would  he  ever  sin  more?  Probably  he  would,  else  why 
has  Eternal  Wisdom  reserved  such  knowledge  for  the 
most  part  to  another  world? 

A  light,  swift  step  sounded  along  the  corridor;  the  door 
opened,  and  the  blind  boy  came  running  in,  with  a  joyous 
greeting  on  his  lips. 

The  dean  lifted  his  head,  and  strove  to  calm  himself  as 
he  welcomed  the  child  in  a  gentle  voice ;  but  his  heart  was 
wrung  by  the  contrast  between  this  lad  and  the  fine, 
healthy  youth  who  had  just  left  him — wrung,  too,  by  the 
thought  that  the  latter's  look  had  shown  no  gleam  of  af- 
fection ;  nothing  but  a  challenge  of  defiance. 

"I  made  such  a  mistake,  papa,"  said  Everard ;  "I  actu- 
ally took  a  stranger  for  you.  Yet  his  voice  was  louder  and 
his  step  stronger  than  yours.  I  met  him  in  the  hall  now. 
Benson  was  letting  him  out.  Who  was  he?  Benson  says 
his  face  is  rather  like  yours,  so  perhaps  I  was  not  so  very 
stupid.'' 

"My  poor  Everard!"  murmured  the  dean,  folding  the 
child  with  unwonted  tenderness  in  his  arms;  "my  blighted 
boy!" 

"I  am  not  poor,"  returned  the  child,  brightly,  while  he 


3io 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAV  MAITLAND. 


laid  his  soft,  round  cheek  on  his  father's  hollow  face  with 
a  colt-like  caress.  "Now,  dada,  I  won't  be  pitied.  Ben- 
son said  the  fellow  was  like  you,  so  his  eyes  were  little 
better  than  my  ears.  But  who  is  he?" 

"A  stranger,  an  American.  So  you  sang  the  solo,  I 
hear?" 

"Yes,  and  it  went  so  well. My  voice  was  like  a  bird  fly- 
ing up  to  heaven's  gate.  Father,  it  is  nice  to  have  such 
a  voice,  it  goes  as  if  it  couldn't  help  it.  And  I  showed 
such  a  nice  fellow  over  the  cathedral,  and  took  him  in 
thoroughly." 

"Poor  lad;  poor  dear  lad!  And  what  is  going  on  now?" 

"Virgil  with  the  Herr.  And  after  dinner  Marry  has 
promised  to  accompany  our  violins.  And  what  do  you 
think?  The  duke  has  a  Stradivarius,  and  Lord  Arthur  is 
to  take  me  to  Dewhurst  to  hear  it,  and  perhaps  touch  it. 
How  hot  and  wet  your  forehead  is!  Is  your  head  bad? 
Am  I  bothering?'' 

The  boy's  sightless  gaze  met  his  father's  glance  of  pas- 
sionate tenderness,  all  unconscious  of  the  agony  it  looked 
upon;  and  the  dean  turned  away,  for  he  could  not  bear 
it  Marion's  laugh  came  floating  in  again  with  its  mas- 
culine echo,  and  the  child's  face  brightened. 

"Marry  and  Arthur,"  he  said. 

The  dean  pushed  the  dark  hair  from  the  boy's  brow, 
kissed  and  blessed  him,  and  dismissed  him  under  the  plea 
of  a  headache  and  desire  for  quiet,  watching  him  leave 
the  room  with  a  look  of  wistful  compassion.  He  loved 
his  blind  son  better  than  anything  on  earth,  but  he  re- 
membered how  he  had  held  the  other  lad  in  his  arms  at 
the  font,  and  how  the  infant's  touch  had  stirred  the  first 
keen  thrill  of  fatherhood  in  his  heart. 

"I  dare  not,  oh,  I  dare  not!  It  would  be  utter  ruin!" 
he  murmured  to  himself,  in  reply  to  some  inward  sugges- 
tion. 

The  young  Canadian  meantime  left  the  Deanery,  and 
placing  his  hat  firmly  on  his  head,  turned  to  take  one 
comprehensive  look  at  it  before  he  went  round  by  the 
cloisters  and  disappeared. 

"Je-rusalem!"  he  exclaimed,  "if  my  sainted  parent  isn't 
a  first-rate  actor  and  a  cool  hand !  Now  I  know  where  I 
got  my  brains  from." 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  311 

The  dean  sat  on,  with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands  and 
his  heart  torn,  with  the  deadly  missive  before  him,  and 
utter  ruin  staring  him  in  the  face,  while  the  long  gold 
bars  of  sunshine  lengthened  and  fell  across  him  unheeded, 
and  the  pleasant  chime  music  told  quarter  after  quarter. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  he  groaned,  "but  one  sin  in  a  youth  so 
spotless!  And  have  I  not  repented?  And  are  all  these 
years  of  agony  nothing?  And  the  work  I  have  done  and 
have  still  to  do!  And  the  powers  vouchsafed  to  me!  Is 
there  no  mercy — none?" 

An  hour  ago  he  had  been  so  secure,  so  unsuspecting — 
the  old  ghost  laid  forever  he  thought.  And  now?  To 
go  to  that  public  hospital,  he,  to  whom  no  disguise  was 
possible,  whose  very  fame  would  pursue  him  and  point 
him  out  with  a  finger  of  fire,  to  meet  the  dying  gaze  of 
that  hated  woman,  to  hear  her  terrible  reproach!  How 
could  he?  And  that  boy,  with  his  strong  self-will  and 
his  ambition — Dean  Maitland  knew  too  well  whence  he 
got  those  qualities — he  would  hunt  him  down  without 
pity.  Why  not  cut  the  knot  forever?  He  had  poison  at 
hand. 

The  low  mellow  murmurs  of  a  gong  rose  on  his  ear 
(there  were  no  bells  or  any  harsh  sounds  at  the  Deanery) ; 
he  heard  Marion's  voice  calling  to  Everard,  and  the  tap 
of  her  light  foot  as  she  ran  down-stairs  only  just  in  time 
for  dinner.  He  could  not  take  his  life  just  then;  he  had 
to  invent  an  excuse  for  not  appearing  at  dinner. 

The  perilous  moment  past,  better  thoughts  came  to  him. 
He  leaned  out  of  the  window  and  breathed  the  cool  dusk 
air.  A  wakened  bird  twittered  happily  before  turning 
again  to  its  rest ;  Everard's  pure  voice  floated  out  from  an 
open  window,  with  the  words  of  an  anthem  he  was  learn- 
ing. The  dean  fell  down  before  the  crucifix,  and  tried  to 
pray.  He  lay  there  in  the  darkness  while  his  children's 
music  sounded  through  the  open  windows,  till  the  moon- 
light stole  in  through  the  lattice  upon  him,  and  there  was 
silence  in  the  house,  save  for  the  ticking  of  clocks  and  the 
deep  breathing  of  the  sleepers.  Then  he  rose,  haggard 
and  exhausted,  but  resolved  to  do  his  duty,  whatever  it 
might  cost  him. 

Striking  a  light,  he  went  to  a  cabinet  inlaid  with  deli- 
cate mosaic  and  touched  a  spring.  A  hidden  compart- 


312 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


ment  was  disclosed,  whence  he  took  a  bottle  and  a  glass 
on  which  measures  were  engraved.  Carefully  pouring 
out  an  exact  quantity  of  dark-brown  liquid,  he  drank  it, 
and  replaced  the  spring. 

The  dean  was  a  total  abstainer;  he  knew  the  world  too 
well  to  hope  for  influence  over  the  popular  mind  unless 
he  bowed  to  the  idol  of  the  hour,  and  frequently  observed 
to  friends  that  he  abstained  from  wine  "for  the  sake  of 
example."  For  the  same  reason,  probably,  nobody  knew 
anything  about  the  little  bottle  of  dark  liquid. 


CHAPTER  III. 


When  Everard  reached  the  High  Street,  his  attention 
was  caught  by  an  announcement  in  a  bookseller's  window, 
"Dean  Maitland's  new  work,"  and,  on  going  up  to  the 
Shop,  he  saw  the  volumes,  fresh  from  the  publisher's,  in 
their  plain  brown  binding.  It  was  the  third  volume  of 
the  dean's  "Commentary  on  the  Pauline  Epistles."  There 
also  he  saw,  in  every  variety  of  binding  suited  to  lux- 
urious devotion,  his  other  works:  his  "Secret  Penitent," 
his  "Knight's  Expiation,  and  other  Poems,"  his  "Lyra 
Sacra,"  his  "Individual  Sanctity,"  his  "Verses  for  the  Suf- 
fering," "Parish  Sermons,"  "Sermons  Preached  in  West- 
minster Abbey,"  together  with  endless  tracts  and  pamph- 
lets. Everard  purchased  the  "Secret  Penitent,"  and  the 
"Expiation,"  after  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  sermons, 
wondering  at  their  commonplace  character,  and  listening 
to  a  long  eulogy  on  the  author  from  the  bookseller.  Then 
he  walked  up  the  hill  to  the  station,  dipping  into  his  new 
purchases  as  he  went. 

Having  claimed  his  modest  possessions,  he  had  them 
conveyed  to  the  George  Inn,  where  he  dined  in  a  first- 
floor  room  with  a  bow-window  looking  out  on  the  sunny, 
bustling  High  Street;  and  while  he  dined  he  turned  over 
the  leaves  of  the  dean's  book,  recognizing  Cyril's  style 
and  certain  peculiar  turns  of  thought  and  traits  of  char- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


313 


acter  as  he  read,  and  feeling  more  and  more  that  neither 
the  poems  nor  the  devotions  were  the  work  of  a  conscious 
hypocrite.  From  an  artistic  point  of  view,  they  were  not 
calculated  to  take  tHe  world  by  storm;  but  there  was  an 
unmistakable  ring  of  reality  throughout,  which  entitled 
them  to  respect,  and  accounted  for  the  influence  Dean 
Maitland  was  said  to  exercise  over  men's  minds.  The 
"Secret  Penitent"  had  passed  through  many  editions.  It 
must  have  comforted  the  souls  of  thousands  of  human  be- 
ings; it  could  only  have  been  written  by  a  man  of  deep 
religious  convictions  and  high-toned  morality. 

Everard  sat  in  the  bow-window,  listening  to  the  hum  of 
the  streets  and  the  cadences  of  the  bells,  and  pondering 
with  a  bewildered  mind  over  this  enigma  of  human  char- 
acter; and  again  he  wondered,  as  he  had  so  often  won- 
dered during  the  earlier  days  of  miserable  brooding  in  his 
captivity,  how  it  was  possible  that  such  a  man  could  have 
sinned  so  heavily?  He  recalled  his  sensitive  refinement, 
his  excessive  exaltation  of  the  spiritual  above  the  animal, 
his  scorn  for  the  facile  follies  of  youth,  his  piety,  the 
purity  of  his  emotions,  his  almost  womanly  tenderness, 
and  marvelled  with  a  bewilderel  amazement.  He  had 
himself  not  been  unacquainted  with  the  fires  of  tempta- 
tion, but  his  life  had  been  unscathed,  nevertheless,  be- 
cause he  had  been  strong  enough  to  resist.  But  that  such 
fires  should  have  power  over  Cyril  seemed  incredible,  es- 
pecially when  he  remembered  his  austere,  almost  ascetic 
life. 

Equally  strange  did  it  appear  to  Cyril  himself,  as  he 
lay  prostrate  before  the  crucifix,  face  to  face  with  his  sin, 
and  wondering  if  indeed  he  were  the  same  man  as  he  who 
went  astray  twenty  years  ago. 

Yet  the  first  sin  was  simple  enough,  giving  the  compo- 
nents of  Cyril's  character  and  Alma's,  the  strange  and 
inexplicable  entanglement  of  the  animal  and  the  spiritual 
in  human  nature,  and  the  blind  madness  in  which  passion, 
once  kindled,  involves  the  whole  being. 

Alma  was  then  innocent  of  heart;  but  what  is  inno- 
cence before  the  fierce  flame  of  temptation,  unless 
guarded  by  high  principle  and  severe  self-mastery?  Cyril 
could  not  live  without  adoration,  and  when  Marion  turned 
from  him,  he  caught  at  that  unconsciously  offered  him 


3H 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


elsewhere,  telling  himself  that  there  could  be  no  harm  to 
such  as  he,  above  temptation  as  he  was,  in  watching  the 
impassioned  light  of  Alma's  beautiful  eyes,  and  that  pity 
required  him  to  pour  some  kindness  into  so  stricken  and 
guileless  a  heart. 

So  in  those  idle  days  of  the  Shotover  curacy  he  trod  the 
primrose  path  of  dalliance  with  a  careless  and  unguarded 
heart,  and  did  not  waken  to  a  sense  of  danger  until  he 
found  himself  and  another  precipitated  downward  into 
the  very  gulfs  of  hell.  The  shock  of  the  fall  sobered  him, 
and  suddenly  quenched  the  delirium  of  the  senses  which 
had  hitherto  blinded  him,  and  left  a  mingled  loathing  and 
contempt  for  its  place ;  and  the  abasement  of  his  own  fall 
and  the  terrible  sense  of  having  wrought  the  ruin  of 
another  stirred  the  yet  unwakened  depths  of  his  nature, 
and  kindled  the  first  faint  beginnings  of  deeper  moral  and 
spiritual  life.  Had  he  but  possessed  the  courage  and 
strength  of  will  to  accept  the  consequences,  to  confess 
where  confession  was  due,  and  to  atone  as  far  as  atone- 
ment was  possible,  both  he  and  the  more  innocent  part- 
ner of  his  guilt  might  have  recovered  moral  health,  and 
even  happiness,  and  he  might  have  led  the  noblest,  if  not 
perhaps,  the  happiest  of  lives,  deriving  strength  from  his 
very  weakness. 

For  his  life  had  till  then  been  untempted,  and  all  His 
impulses  had  been  good  and  beautiful.  But  he  was  a 
coward,  and  loved  the  praise  of  men.  And  more  than  all 
things  and  persons  he  loved  Cyril  Maitland.  He  was  also 
a  self-deceiver;  he  drugged  his  conscience  and  was 
dragged  into  the  tortuous  windings  of  his  own  inward 
deceit;  and  thus  he  fell  from  depth  to  depth,  like  Luci- 
fer, falling  all  the  deeper  because  of  the  height  from 
which  he  fell,  until  he  finished  in  the  perversion  of  his 
moral  being  with  the  deed  of  a  Judas.  Of  that  last 
iniquity  he  never  dared  think. 

Everard  read  and  pondered,  and  pondered  and  read, 
and  was  filled  with  awe  and  pity.  Then,  laying  the  books 
aside  with  a  sense  of  joy  in  his  newly  gained  freedom,  he 
took  his  hat  and  sauntered  along  the  dusky,  yet  unlighted 
streets,  letting  his  fancy  dwell  on  brighter  themes. 

He  had  not  gone  far  before  he  met  a  man  who  looked 
curiously  at  him,  turned  after  he  had  passed,  and  again 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

studied  him  intently,  and  finally,  retracing  his  steps,  ac- 
costed him. 

"It  is  Doctor  Everard,  surely,"  he  said. 

"That  is  my  name,"  replied  Everard,  a  little  startled  at 
the  unfamiliar  sound  of  the  long  unspoken  name.  "But 
I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  yours,"  he  added, 
scanning  the  figure  and  face  of  the  respectable  trades- 
man. 

"Think  of  Dartmoor,  and  No.  56,"  replied  the  trades- 
man, in  a  low  tone. 

A  light  of  recognition  broke  over  Everard's  face,  and 
he  clasped  the  offered  hand  with  a  cordial  greeting. 

"It  is  no  wonder  that  you  did  not  recognize  rne,"  the 
man  said;  "thanks  to  you,  I  make  rather  a  different  figure 
to  what  I  did  on  the  moor.  But  yours  is  a  face  not  to  be 
forgotten." 

"You  are  doing  well,  apparently,  Smithson." 

"I  have  a  linen-draper's  shop,  and  I  married  a  good 
girl,  and  we  have  two  little  ones,  and  we  pay  our  way," 
he  replied.  "If  you  are  going  my  way — I  was  just  stroll- 
ing up  the  hill  for  a  breath  of  air — I  will  tell  you  all 
about  it.  You  know,  doctor,  I  could  never  have  had  the 
courage  to  face  the  world  again  but  for  you.  Your  words 
were  always  in  my  ears,  'The  only  atonement  we  can 
make  is  to  accept  the  consequences  manfully  and  conquer 
them/  It  was  uphill  work,  and  I  was  often  ready  to 
throw  up  the  sponge ;  but  I  stuck  to  it,  and  got  through. 
Everybody  knows  my  story,  but  they  have  mostly  forgot- 
ten it.  Many  a  time  when  I  was  ready  to  give  up,  and 
take  to  lying  ways  and  hiding  and  going  to  the  deuce 
again,  I  remembered  how  you,  an  honorable  gentleman, 
who  never  did  wrong,  trusted  and  respected  me  in  spite 
of  all,  and  I  thought,  Tf  he  can  respect  me,  others  will,' 
and  I  held  on.  You  remember  the  Putney  Slogger?1' 

"Poor  Slogger!  he  had  a  good  heart,  Jim." 

"He  goes  straight  now,  and  says  it  was  you  that 
heartened  him  to  it.  Has  a  green-grocer's  cart,  and  deals 
fair." 

Smithson  had  been  a  clerk  in  a  mercantile  office,  and, 
falling  into  dissipated  ways  and  consequent  debt,  helped 
himself  to  petty  sums,  which  gradually  grew  larger,  until 
the  usual  end  of  such  a  course  was  reached — an  appear- 


3i6  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

ance  in  the  prisoner's  dock  and  a  sentence  of  penal  servi- 
tude. He  was  barely  twenty  when  Everard  made  his  ac- 
quaintance at  Dartmoor,  and  a  more  hopeless  human  be- 
ing than  he  did  not  exist.  He  had  been  brought  up  by 
an  uncle,  who  now  washed  his  hands  of  him  forever. 
Everard  pitied  the  miserable  lad,  won  his  affections  and 
confidence,  showed  him  how  he  could  shorten  his  term  by 
good  conduct,  impressed  upon  him  that  one  fault  need 
not  blight  a  man's  life,  and  encouraged  him  to  achieve  a 
new  reputation. 

When  he  got  his  ticket-of-leave,  he  boldly  offered  his 
services  in  shops  and  offices  at  a  low  price,  in  considera- 
tion of  his  antecedents,  and,  after  many  rebuffs  and  much 
privation  during  a  time  when  he  kept  himself  alive  by 
casual  manual  labor,  by  dint  of  persistence  and  watching 
the  time  when  employers  were  short-handed,  he  got  him- 
self taken  on  as  assistant  in  a  draper's  shop,  for  which  he 
had  done  errands  and  odd  jobs. 

Here  he  suffered  much  misery  from  the  taunts  and  prac- 
tical jokes  of. his  fellow-shopmen,  who  managed  to  get 
hold  of  his  history,  the  truth  of  which  he  did  not  deny. 
Did  any  petty  dishonesty  occur,  suspicion  turned  at  once 
to  the  jail-bird;  nay,  was  anything  lost  it  was  laid  to  his 
account.  More  than  once  he  was  on  the  point  of  being 
taken  into  custody,  when  his  innocence  was  proved;  and 
once  the  roasting  and  sending  to  Coventry  he  underwent 
at  the  hands  of  his  comrades  had  become  so  intolerable 
that,  in  his  desperation,  he  offered  to  fight  each  man  sep- 
arately, in  order  of  seniority,  on  the  condition  that  the 
conquered  were  never  again  to  allude  to  his  unfortunate 
past.  His  challenge  was  refused  on  the  ground  that  no 
man  could  sully  his  hands  by  fighting  him,  but  one  or 
two  of  the  better  disposed  from  that  day  dropped  the 
cruel  tyranny;  others  followed  their  example,  and  Smith- 
son  gradually  earned  a  character  and  received  full  salary. 

Then  he  saved  money,  and,  having  gained  the  affec- 
tion of  a  girl  in  the  millinery  department  of  his  house, 
felt  that  he  had  won  the  battle  of  life.  They  put  their 
savings  together  and  started  in  an  humble  way  on  their 
own  account,  and  now  they  had  a  large  establishment,, 
and  paid  their  way.  They  did  not,  of  course,  parade 
Smithson's  antecedents;  but  they  were  determined  to 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


317 


hav£  no  concealments,  and  intended  that  their  children, 
when  of  fit  age,  should  know  the  whole  story.  Sniithson 
now  related  to  Everard  how,  mindful  of  his  own  desper- 
ate struggles  and  misery  on  leaving  prison,  he  tried  to 
lend  others  a  helping  hand,  by  giving  them  employment. 
It  was,  however,  found  extremely  difficult  to  mix  them 
with  people  of  good  reputation.  The  end  of  it  was  that 
his  entire  staff,  both  of  house  and  shop,  consisted  of 
criminals,  all  of  whom  were  supposed  to  ignore  the  ante- 
cedents of  the  others,  and  many  of  whom  believed  the 
others  to  be  spotless.  Many,  whom  he  was  unable  to 
employ  himself,  Smithson  had  set  going  by  offering 
security  for  their  integrity,  and  by  this  means  had  had 
/the  happiness  of  setting  a  number  of  fallen  creatures 
upon  their  feet  again. 

"But  are  you  never  deceived  or  robbed?"  asked  Ever- 
ard, who  was  deeply  interested  in  his  friend's  narration. 

Smithson  smiled,  and  replied  that  his  trust  had  more 
than  once  been  abused,  but  more  frequently  justified. 
That  very  week  he  had  paid  a  hundred  pounds  surety 
money. 

"You  will  not  make  a  fortune  art  this  rate,  Jim." 

"No,  doctor;  but  we  are  content  to  pay  our  way,  and 
we  like  helping  people  better  than  getting  money,"  he 
replied.  "My  wife  is  greatly  set  on  that,  especially  on 
helping  the  women.  Come  and  see  her;  she  has  heard 
many  a  tale  of  you.  It  will  be  supper-time  by  the  time 
we  are  back." 

Everard  gladly  accepted  this  invitation,  and  found 
among  Smithson's  staff  another  old  prison  friend,  whose 
memory  of  him  was  as  grateful  as  his  employer's.  Smith- 
son  showed  him  the  photograph  of  a  refined  looking 
woman,  with  a  pleasing  face.  "Our  forewoman,"  he  said. 

"But  surely  there  is  nothing  against  her,"  said  Everard. 

"She  had  ten  years  for  killing  her  husband,"  replied 
Smithson. 

"Capital  woman  of  business,  and  the  sweetest  temper. 
The  dean  got  hold  of  her,  and  sent  her  to  me.  He  stands 
surety  for  those  who  have  no  character.  Ah!  no  one 
knows  the  good  that  man  does!" 

"Do  you  mean  the  Dean  of  Belminster?"  asked  Ever- 
ard, in  a  hard  voice. 


. 
3i8  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

"Of  course;  the  dean — Dean  Maitland." 

Everard  again  looked  at  the  handsome  milliner,  whose 
face  was  as  gentle  as  it  was  refined,  and  could  not  help 
asking  what  led  this  amiable  person  to  resort  to  the  ex- 
treme measure  of  murdering  her  husband.  No  doubt  he 
deserved  it,  he  thought;  but  then,  so  many  husbands  do, 
that  it  would  cause  considerable  social  inconvenience  to 
condone  such  acts. 

"She  did  it  in  a  passion,  poor  girl.  The  fellow  was  a 
drunken  brute,  years  older  than  she,  and  he  used  to  beat 
her  and  drag  her  about  by  the  hair  night  after  night. 
She  put  up  with  it,  as  so  many  poor  things  do,  and  went 
starved  and  barefoot,  though  they  were  well-to-do  people. 
But  one  night  he  came  home  drunk  as  usual,  and  dashed 
the  baby  against  the  wall,  and  she  took  up  a  knife  and 
stabbed  him  to  death. 

"And  the  baby?" 

"The  baby  is  now  in  Earlswood,  a  hopeless  idiot.  She 
hopes  to  have  it  home  to  tend  some  day.  It  was  a  clever 
little  thing,  just  beginning  to  talk.  Nobody  but  the  dean 
and  we  two  guess  there  is  anything  wrong  in  her  past. 
She  is  only  four-and-tm'rty  now,  and  much  admired. 
My  wife  is  very  fond  of  her." 

"Have  you  any  more  murderers?"  asked  Everard. 

"Not  at  present.  We  are  mostly  thieves  and  forgers 
just  now,  and  all  first  convictions.  Ah,  doctor!  the 
Almighty  can  bring  good  out  of  evil,  and  it  was  a  happy 
day  for  many  besides  me  when  first  I  saw  your  kind  face 
in  that  awful  place.  Nobody  but  you  ever  told  me  that 
good  is  stronger  than  evil.  You  said  it  in  the  exercise- 
yard  that  cold,  foggy  Sunday,  while  all  that  vicious  talk 
was  going  on  round  us,  and  the  Mauler  was  making  his 
filthy  jokes." 

"That  is  all  over  now,  Jim,  thank  God!"  said 
Everard. 

Then  the  former  comrades  parted,  Everard  deeply 
moved  by  what  he  had  seen  and  heard,  and  half  doubting 
if  the  pleasant,  open  face  of  the  philanthropic  linen- 
draper,  with  its  look  of  grave  thought  and  settled  happi- 
ness, could  indeed  be  the  same  as  that  white,  haggard, 
abject  face  with  the  despairing  eyes  which  had  so  moved 
his  pity  years  ago  in  the  dreary  prison,  and  thankful  for 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAX  MA1TLAND.  319 

his  long  agony  if  it  had  been  the  salvation  of  but  one  fel- 
low-creature. 

The  next  evening  found  him  in  the  nave  of  the  cathe- 
dral some  time  before  the  appointed  hour  for  the  lecture, 
for  the  verger  had  warned  him  that  the  attendance  would 
be  very  large.  The  sun  was  still  shining  warmly  on  the 
lime-tree  avenue  outside,  making  the  fresh  foliage  f;low 
like  a  jewel  of  unearthly  radiance  in  its  blended  gold  and 
green  translucence,  throwing  long  powdery  shafts  of  gold 
through  the  windows  up  into  the  dim  recesses  of  the 
groined  roof,  and  disclosing  carved  nooks  only  thus 
touched  by  the  midsummer  glory,  and  dark  all  the  year 
long  besides.  But  the  body  of  the  cathedral  was  solemnly 
dusk,  and  great  masses  of  shadow  brooded  in  the  choirs, 
transepts  and  chantries,  and  each  brotherhood  of  massed 
pillars  in  the  nave  was  bound  with  a  girdle  of  tiny  fare- 
points,  which  were  to  grow  large:  with  the  gathering 
gloom. 

Everard  watched  the  great  stream  of  worshippers  pour 
steadily  and  quietly  in  and  fill  the  long  lines  of  chairs, 
which  made  the  pillars  look  more  lofty  and  the  soaring 
roof  farther  oft"  than  ever.  They  were  chiefly  n;en,  the 
lectures  being  especially  given  for  workinginen;  but 
women  were  not  excluded,  and  in  some  cases  accom- 
panied a  husband,  a  father,  or  a  brother.  Men  with  hard 
and  stained  hands,  with  clothes  still  redolent  of  the  putty, 
paint  or  oil  of  the  day's  labors;  men  with  rugged,  eager 
faces  and  athletic  frames,  for  the  most  part;  also  the 
pallid,  weak-kneed  tailors,  shoemakers  and  other  indoor 
laborers. 

Clerks  and  shopmen  were  also  there,  with  men  of  a 
higher  standing  still;  but  it  was  the  hard-handed  fellows 
in  whom  Everard  found  himself  most  interested — those 
extremely  human  creatures  in  whom  the  elementary  in- 
stincts and  passions  are  still  so  active  and  unchecked,  and 
whose  intellects  are  so  starved  and  yet  so  unspoiled.  How 
would  the  refined  and  cultivated  dean  touch  these?  he 
wondered.  He  had  lived  among  them  so  long  himself 
that  he  had  acquired  a  strong  affection  for  the  raw  mate- 
rial of  human  nature ;  but  wrhat  link  was  there  between  the 
delicate-handed  Cyril  and  these  untutored  sons  of  im~ 


320 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


pulse?  A  link  there  surely  must  be,  or  they  would  not 
thus  come  pouring  in  to  hear  him. 

Far  down  among  the  hard  visages  of  the  artisans,  Ever- 
ard  saw  some  black-coated,  clerical-looking  men,  whose 
peculiar  half-finished  appearance  proclaimed  them  to  be 
dissenting  ministers,  and  he  remembered  how  the  verger 
told  him  that  the  popular  Spurgeon  himself  did  not  dis- 
dain to  try  to  catch  the  secret  of  the  dean's  golden- 
mouthed  eloquence. 

Such  an  agitation  pervaded  his  being,  that  even  the 
quiet  majesty  of  the  great  dim  cathedral  could  scarcely 
calm  him.  He  could  now  count  the  hours  before  his 
meeting  with  Lilian,  and  another  second  might  bring 
him  face  to  face  with  Cyril,  whom  he  had  last  seen  in 
the  terrible  moment  of  his  sentence.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
service  would  never  begin.  The  worshippers  still  poured 
in,  the  nave  was  full;  but  where  were  the  clergy?  The 
organ  had  been  sounding  for  some  time — soft,  mellow 
music,  as  soothing  as  the  wave-lullaby  of  the  summei 
sea,  with  no  hint  of  slumbering  tempests, — and  a  sick 
fancy  took  Everard's  shaken  mind  that  something  was/ 
wrong,  and  Cyril  would  never  come. 

He  seemed  to  have  been  looking  at  that  dark  sea  of 
earnest  faces,  and  hearing  that  solemn,  wave-like  music 
forever,  in  the  beam-broken  dusk  of  the  vast  building. 
But  at  last  a  melody  rose  slowly,  like  an  ocean  spirit,  out 
of  the  softly  breaking  waves  of  music,  and  floated  away 
over  its  surface;  it  was  Mendelssohn's,  "If  with  all  your 
hearts  ye  truly  seek  me" — the  same  which  Cyril  had 
listened  to  in  the  hour  of  his  desperate  inward  conflict 
eighteen  years  ago,  and  the  small  choir  entered  with  two 
clergymen,  one  of  whom  wore  the  scarlet  hood  of  a  doc- 
tor over  his  snowy  surplice,  and  whom  he  heard  it  whis- 
pered was  no  other  that  the  great  dean. 

He  had  so  stationed  himself,  partly  with  a  view  to  being 
unseen  by  the  preacher,  that  he  only  caught  a  brief 
glimpse  of  the  procession,  and  lost  sight  of  the  dean 
entirely  when  the  latter  took  the  place  he  occupied  dur- 
ing the  prayers,  so  that  he  could  not  recognize  him. 

Cyril  had  risen  that  morning  refreshed  by  sleep,  and 
had  looked  upon  the  disturbing  events  of  the  previous 
evening  from  quite  another  point  of  view,  in  the  even- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAlfLAND. 


321 


ing,  alone  in  the  silence  of  his  study,  he  had  been  a  sinful 
man,  face  to  face  with  the  awful  consequences  of  his  guilt, 
prostrate,  before  the  God  whose  laws  he  had  broken,  and 
whose  priesthood  he  had  dishonored.  In  the  sunny 
morning,  at  the  breakfast-table,  surrounded  by  an  ador- 
ing family,  with  servants  attentive  to  his  will,  with  a  pile 
of  correspondence  before  him — correspondence  in  which 
the  Dean  of  Belminster  was  asked  to  do  this  and  that, 
and  implored  to  give  advice  or  attendance  on  the  other; 
correspondence  relating  to  the  Bishopric  of  Warham, 
which  was  now  virtually  his  own — he  was  another  man: 
he  was  the  Dean  of  Belminster,  the  Bishop-designate  of 
Warham,  the  friend  of  princes  and  ministers,  the  popu- 
lar author,  the  chosen  guide  of  troubled  consciences. 
This  man  naturally  thought  in  other  ways  than  the  con- 
science-stricken sinner  alone  with  his  guilt. 

While  breakfasting  and  chatting  pleasantly  with  his 
children,  and  with  Miss  Mackenzie  and  the  German  tutor, 
both  of  whom  were  under  the  spell  of  his  fascinati  in,  an 
under-current  of  thought  passed  through  his  mind  on  the 
subject  of  last  night's  unsuspected  agony.  While  rapidly 
running  through  his  correspondence,  and  answering  let- 
ter after  letter  with  the  swift  skill  of  a  practiced  pen; 
while  entering  the  cathedral  behind  the  white-robed 
choir,  while  listening  to  the  chanted  prayers  and  psalms; 
while  sending  his  beautiful  voice  pealing  down  the  "dim 
aisles  on  the  wings  of  the  ancient  Hebrew  poems;  the 
same  under-current  of  thought  flowed  silently  on. 

Was  it  his  fault  that  a  series  of  blunders  had  con- 
demned Everard  to  an  excessive  sentence  for  a  crime  that 
was  never  committed?  Was  he  responsible  for  the  sever- 
ity of  the  judge,  the  stupidity  of  the  jury,  the  unlucky 
blunderings  of  the  witnesses — above  all,  for  the  perjury 
of  Alma  Lee?  A  man  may  love  a  woman  who  has  sinned, 
but  few  men  love  women  who  sin  for  their  sake,  even 
though  that  sin  be  of  heir  own  compassing.  Cyril  had 
turned  from  Alma  after  her  first  fall ;  but  when  she  stood 
and  swore  to  the  undoing  of  Everard,  he  loathed  her  with 
an  unspeakable  loathing.  He  said  to  himself  that  she 
was  thoroughly  bad,  the  cause  of  every  trouble  he  had 
ever  known;  as  the  sons  of  Adam  always  do  when  they 
sin,  he  thixw  all  the  blame  on  the  woman. 


322 


SILENCE  oP  DEAX  MAI f LAND. 


He  argued  within  himself  that  it  was  now  too  late  for 
reparation;  by  this  time  Everard  must  have  nearly  com- 
pleted his  term  of  imprisonment.  His  life  had  been 
hopelessly  ruined ;  to  stir  the  muddy  waters  of  that  bitter 
past  would  be  merely  to  bring  irretrievable  ruin  on  others. 
Alma  could  not,  he  thought,  clear  Everard  without  be- 
traying him. 

And  then  he  considered  his  position  in  the  Church,  his 
elevation  in  men's  minds,  the  influence  he  had  upon  his 
generation — an  influence  depending  entirely  on  moral 
spotlessness,  and  asked  what  sin  could  equal  that  of 
ruining  his  own  career  of  exceptional  usefulness?  To 
comfort  the  morbid  terrors  of  a  dying  reprobate  was  he  to 
bring  disgrace  upon  the  national  Church,  of  which  he 
was  a  chief  ornament;  nay,  upon  the  very  Christianity 
of  which  he  had  been  so  famous  a  teacher?  Was  he  fo 
blast  the  prospects  of  his  innocent  children ;  to  bring  ruin 
on  them,  and  disgrace  upon  his  aged  father  and 
upon  the  honored  name  that  even  his  base-born  son  re- 
vered? The  thing  was  monstrous;  the  more  he  looked  a1! 
it  the  more  monstrous  it  appeared. 

Then  he  remembered  how  cruel  Fate  had  been  to  him., 
how  good  his  intentions  ever  were,  how  far  he  had  been 
from  dreaming  one  of  the  consequences  which  wrapped  I 
him  round  now  in  a  net  of  such  complicated  meshing 
As  to  Alma,  it  turned  him  sick  to  think  of  a  sin  which 
his  inmost  soul  loathed;  he  must  have  been  mad,  pos- 
sessed, suffering  from  some  supernatural  assault  of  the 
powers  of  darkness —  and  he  had  repented,  Heaven  alone 
knew  how  bitterly. 

He  thought  of  the  fatal  hour  when  he  disguised  himself 
in  his  friend's  dress,  with  no  thought  but  the  desire  of 
escaping  recognition  and  dread  of  bringing  scandal  upon 
his  cloth,  never  dreaming  that  he  would  be  mistaken  for 
Everard,  who  was  singularly  unlike  him  in  face  and  man- 
ner. He  thought  of  the  heavy  stick  he  had  taken,  simpl) 
because  a  man  likes  to  have  something  in  his  hand  anc 
which  he  had  thrown  away  before  the.  struggle ;  on  Bei 
Lee's  unexpected  appearance;  of  his  own  wish  to  appease 
the  anger  of  the  man  he  had  so  cruelly  wronged;  of  Lee'j 
unbridled  fury;  of  the  violence  of  his  assault  upon  him; 
and  of  the  fatal  blow  which  had  been  dealt  with  no  ill 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  323 

intention,  but  was  merely  the  rebound  of  that  which  Lee 
was  dealing  with. 

In  all  this  he  felt  that  he  had  been  the  sport  of  a  cruel 
destiny,  the  fool  of  fortune.  And  had  he  not  suffered 
enough  to  atone  for  more  than  men  could  ever  impute  to 
1'im?  He  thought  of  the  wife  of  his  youth,  first 
estranged,  and  then  fading  before  him;  of  the  sweet 
faces  of  his  children,  and  the  graves  which  closed  over 
tiiem  in  their  loveliest  bloom,  just  as  each  had  twined 
itself  round  his  heart.  He  thought  of  -his  son  and  his 
hopeless  affliction,  and  his  heart  bled. 

Yet  he  intended  to  go  to  the  dying  woman.  But  not 
•immediately;  he  had  pressing  duties  to  perform  first,  and 
who  knew  what  might  turn  up  in  the  meantime?  Besides, 
lie  needed  time  for  thought  before  meeting  her. 

In  the  afternoon  there  came  a  second  message  from  the 
sick  woman,  bidding  him  come  that  day,  as  she  might 
not  live  to  see  another.  He  could  not  come  at  the  mo- 
ment, having  just  then  an  engagement  that  could  not  be 
postponed;  he  promised,  with  a  sick  heart,  to  come  in  an 
hour's  time. 

The  hour  passed.  He  took  his  hat  and  yet  lingered,  go- 
ing back  to  give  some  message  to  Marion,  then  again  to 
look  into  Everard's  study  and  see  how  he  was  getting  on; 
then  at  last  he  issued  from  beneath  the  light  colonnade  be- 
fore his  door,  and  set  his  face  toward  the  hospital.  He 
had  not  left  the  close  when  a  messenger  from  the  hospital 
met  him,  and  gave  the  dean  a  note,  which  he  opened  with 
trembling  fingers.  It  was  to  inform  him  that  Alma  was 
dead. 

He  turned  swiftly  back,  and  did  not  stop  till  he  reached 
home,  entered  his  study,  and  locked  the  door;  then  he 
threw  himself  into  a  chair,  laid  his  arms  on  the  table,  and, 
letting  his  face  fall  upon  them,  burst  into  tears  and  sobbed 
heavily  for  some  time.  Something  had  turned  up,  after 
all,  and  he  was  spared  the  horror  of  that  dreaded  interview, 
and  could  only  hope  that  Alma's  secret  had  died  with 
her. 

He  did  not  leave  his  study  until  it  was  time  to  go  to  the 
cathedral,  which  he  did  with  a  sense  of  unspeakable  re- 
lief. The  reaction  after  last  night's  agony  and  to-day's 
conflict  made  him  see  everything  in  the  brightest  colors, 


324  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

and  a  delicious  languor  fell  upon  his  wearied  brain,  a  lan- 
guor so  deep  that  he  felt  incapable  of  rousing  himself  to 
the  effort  of  preaching.  His  was,  however,  one  of  those 
finely  strung,  nervous  natures  which  respond  to  the  will 
as  a  thoroughbred  horse  does  to  the  whip,  and  do  what 
is  required  of  them  in  spite  of  exhaustion  up  to  the  last 
gasp;  and  when  the  brief  prayers  were  ended,  and  the 
great  volume  of  men's  voices  rolled  out  the  hymn  before 
the  sermon,  he  pulled  himself  together  and  ascended  the 
pulpit  with  his  accustomed  air  of  reverent  dignity;  and, 
having  turned  up  the  gas-beads  at  the  desk  and  placed 
his  manuscript  conveniently,  sent  a  piercing,  comprehen- 
sive glance  all  around  the  vast  building  and  over  the 
wide  sea  of  rough  and  earnest  faces  which  flooded  it,  as 
if  taking  the  measure  of  the  human  material  spread  out, 
plastic  and  receptive,  before  him. 

The  sight  inspired  him,  and  sent  a  thrill  through 
every  fibre  of  his  being;  for  his  was  one  of  those  mag- 
netic natures  whose  strong  attractive  power  over  masses 
is  in  direct  proportion  to  the  stimulating  power  of 
masses  upon  themselves.  He  could  not  preach  to  empty 
benches,  but  when  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  a 
multitude,  he  threw  his  own  personality  into  it  in  such  a 
manner  that  he  became,  as  it  were,  a  part  of  his  audience 
and  made  it  a  part  of  himself,  so  that  his  own  emotions 
thrilled  his  hearers,  and  theirs  reacted  upon  him.  This 
was  one  reason  why  the  sermons  Everard  thought  so  com- 
monplace when  printed  had  such  a  living  force  when 
spoken. 

Everard,  who  was  so  placed  by  a  cluster  of  pillars  as  to 
be  half  shielded  by  them,  advanced  his  head  and  gazed 
over  his  hymn-book;  so  that  he  could  see  the  preacher 
without  much  of  his  own  face  being  seen,  and  his  first 
glance  at  the  face,  islanded  from  the  dusk  in  the  ruddy 
glow  of  gas-light,  told  him  that  he  must  have  recognized 
Cyril  anywhere,  and  set  his  heart  beating  vehemently  with 
a  mixture  of  love  and  hate. 

At  forty-three  Dean  Maitland  was  in  his  fullest  prime; 
the  years  had  ripened  instead  of  wasting  and  crushing 
him,  as  they  had  Everard.  The  dark-brown  hair  waved 
as  gracefully  as  in  his  youth  over  his  broad,  clear  brow, 
while  the  few  silver  threads  in  it  were  unseen;  the  finely 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


325 


cut,  closely  shaven  features  were  but  little  sharpened  in 
outline;  the  light-blue  eyes  were  more  sunken,  and  they 
glowed  with  an  intenser  radiance.  The  old  face  was  there, 
but  the  expression  was  altered;  there  was  a  hard  austerity 
about  the  mouth  when  in  repose  that  verged  upon  crudty, 
though  no  one  who  had  ever  seen  those  fine  lips  curve  into 
their  winning  smile  when  speaking  could  accuse  them  of 
anything  harsher  than  a  severe  purity  quite  in  character 
with  the  man's  writings  and  his  calling,  and  during  the 
most  impassioned  glances  of  the  wonderfully  expressive 
eyes  they  had  a  certain  gleam  which  suggested  the  quaint 
and  quiet  humor  which  made  the  dean  so  delightful  in 
society. 

Yet  over  all  the  face  and  in  the  whole  bearing  Everard 
saw  an  expression  he  had  never  seen  before,  and  which  he 
could  not  analyze,  but  which  struck  him  with  keen  pain, 
and  called  to  his  mind  Milton's  description  of  the  fallen 
seraph  on  whose  cheek  sate  care. 

All  that  evening  Everard's  mind  was  haunted  by  the 
image  of  the  fallen  angel,  once  the  brightest  of  the  sons  of 
morning,  weighted  with  his  umitterable  woe,  and  yearn- 
ing for  the  lost  glory  that  could  never  more  be  his. 

In  the  meantime,  the  closing  notes  of  the  hymn  died 
away  in  the  long  and  lingering  cadences  of  the  organ,  the 
great  congregation  seated  itself  with  a  subdued  rustle  and 
murmur,  and  the  dean,  in  his  magnificent  voice  and  pure 
enunciation,  gave  out  his  text. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  voice  which  had  been  so  full  of  music  in  Cyril  Mait- 
land's  youth,  had  now  become  not  only  an  instrument  of 
great  compass  and  rich  tone,  but  it  was  played  by  an 
artist  who  was  a  perfect  master  of  his  craft.  It  was  said 
of  the  Bishop  of  Belminster  that  he  could  pronounce  the 
mystic  word  of  "Mesopotamia"  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
affect  his  auditors  to  tears;  but  of  the  dean  it  might  be 
averred  that  his  pronunciation  of  "Mesopotamia" 


326  TBE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

caused  the  listener's  heart  to  vibrate  with  every  sorrow 
and  every  joy  they  had  ever  known,  all  in  the  brief  space 
of  time  occupied  by  the  utterance  of  that  affecting  word. 
Everard  had  heard  this  saying  in  Belminster,  and  knew 
well  what  Cyril's  voice  was  of  old,  but  he  was  quite  un- 
prepared for  the  tremendous  rush  of  emotion  that  over- 
whelmed him  when  the  dean  opened  his  clear-cut  lips  and 
said,  with  the  pathos  the  words  demanded,  "We  took 
sweet  counsel  together,  and  walked  in  the  house  of  God 
as  friends." 

He  then  paused,  as  his  custom  was,  to  let  the  words 
sink  deeply  into  his  hearer's  minds  before  he  began  his 
discourse,  and  Everard's  very  life  seemed  to  pause  with 
him,  while  he  felt  himself  shaken  in  his  innermost  depths. 
Then  he  remembered  that  Cyril's  passionate  sermon 
upon  innocence  was  the  last  he  had  heard  from  him. 
Since  that  he  had  heard  only  the  discourses  of  prison 
chaplains  to  an  accompaniment  of  whispered  blasphemy 
and  filth.  Once  more  he  saw  the  little  church  at  Mai- 
bourne,  the  beautiful  young  priest  offering  the  chalice 
to  the  kneeling  people  in  the  wintry  sun-gleams;  once 
more  he  saw  the  shadowy  figure  in  the  afternoon  dusk, 
uttering  his  agonized  appeals  to  the  startled  listeners 
below. 

"Yes,  my  brothers,"  said  the  dean  (he  eschewed 
"brethren"  as  both  conventional  and  obsolete,  and  dwelt 
with  a  loving  intonation  on  the  word  "brothers"),  "Jesus 
Christ  and  Judas  took  sweet  counsel  together,  and 
walked  in  the  house  of  God,  as  friends,  strange  as  it  ap- 
pears to  us,  difficult  as  it  is  to  realize  a  fact  so  startling, 
since  in  all  the  whole  range  of  the  world's  tragic  history 
there  has  never  been  found  a  character  so  vile  as  the  on<i 
or  so  spotless  as  the  other. 

"Yet  they  were  not  only  friends,  but  they  actually  took 
sweet  counsel  together.  Picture  that  to  yourselves,  dear 
brothers:  Christ  had  pleasant  conversations  with  Judas, 
asked  his  opinion  on  high  and  holy  subjects,  listened  to 
his  words,  as  you  and  I  listen  to  the  words  of  those  dear 
and  near  to  us.  Was  there  ever  a  more  strangely  assort- 
ed pair?  And  yet" — the  dean  paused,  and  sent  the  pene- 
trating radiance  of  his  gaze  sweeping  over  the  mass  of 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  327 

upturned  faces  before  him — "it  may  be  that  even  now,  to- 
night, with  these  eyes  of  mine,  I  see  among  you,  my  broth- 
ers, in  this  very  house  of  God,  another  pair  strangely  like 
that  mentioned  by  David  in  his  prophecy — some  loyal 
follower  of  Christ  taking  sweet  counsel  and  walking  as 
a  friend  with  such  an  one  as  Judas,  money-loving,  ambi- 
tious, false;  musing  even  now,  with  the  echoes  of  psalms 
and  holy  words  in  his  ears,  how  he  may  betray  the  friend 
who  trusts  and  loves  him.  Alas,  my  brothers,  how  often 
is  such  a  companionship  seen;  and  how  often,  how  sadly 
often,  is  the  guileless  friend  whose  trust  and  love  is  be- 
trayed, a  woman!  'Nay,'  I  hear  you  say,  'we  have  our 
faults,  we  don't  pretend  to  be  saints,  but  we  are  not  Judas- 
es.'  Dare  you  say  that  you  are  no  Judas?"  he  added,  in 
sharp,  incisive  tones,  while  his  glance  seemed  to  single 
some  individual  from  the  throng  and  to  pierce  to  his  very 
marrow — "you,  who  sold  your  wife's  happiness  and  your 
children's  bread  for  a  pot  of  beer?  or  you?"  and  here  the 
penetrating  gaze  seemed  to  single  out  another,  while  the 
preacher  launched  at  him  another  sharp  denunciation  of 
some  homely,  every-day  vice,  using  the  most  direct  and 
forcible  words  the  language  contains  to  give  vigor  to  his 
censures,  till  the  cold  sweat  stood  upon  rugged  brows, 
some  women  wept  furtively,  and  the  dean's  keen  glance 
perceived  the  inward  tremblings  of  many  a  self-convicted 
sinner. 

The  preacher  then  observed  that  the  popular  conception 
of  Judas  a£  a  truculent  thief  whose  ruffianly  character  was 
ill-concealed  by  his  thorough-paced  hypocrisy  was  proba- 
bly false,  and  pointed  out  that  Judas  must  have  appeared 
to  the  world  in  which  he  lived  a,  highly  respectable  and 
well-conducted  person,  if  not  a  very  saint.  Nay,  it  was 
'nis  own  opinion  that  Judas  was  actually  a  very  superior 
being,  a  man  of  lofty  aspirations  and  pure  life,  a  patriot — 
one  who  looked  ardently  for  the  promised  Messiah,  and 
had  sufficient  faith  to  recognize  him  in  the  son  of  the 
Xazarene  carpenter.  Why,  he  asked  his  auditors,  if  he 
had  not  been  all  this,  should  he  have  joined  that  little  band 
of  obscure  men,  those  peasants  and  fishers,  those  men  of 
austere  morality  and  lofty  converse,  who  had  left  all  to  fol- 
low the  young  peasant  prophet  who  had  not  even  a  roof  to 
shelter  Him? 


328  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MA  IT  LAND. 

He  drew  a  beautiful  sketch  of  the  sweet  and  simple 
brotherhood  of  disciples  clustering  about  the  Master,  who 
seemed  to  have  inspired  them  up  to  the  moment  of  the 
crucifixion  more  with  tender  and  passionate  human  de- 
votion than  with  awe  and  worship,  and  with  whom  they 
lived  with  such  close  and  intimate  communion,  taking 
sweet  counsel  together  on  the  loftiest  subjects,  and  yet 
sharing  the  most  trivial  events  of  everyday  life;  and  asked 
Ms  hearers  if  they  thought  a  mere  money-lover  and  traitor 
could  have  endured  such  a  fellowship,  or  been  endured 
by  it.  But  if  Judas  were  indeed  worthy  to  be  chosen  as 
one  of  that  small  and  select  band  (and  it  was  an  undoubt- 
ed fact  that  he  was  thought  worthy  and  tenderly  loved  up 
to  the  last  by  his  Divine  Master),  how  was  it  that  he  fell 
into  so  black  a  sin,  and  stamped  his  name  upon  all  time 
as  a  symbol  of  the  utmost  degradation  of  which  man  is 
capable? 

"Ah!  my  brothers,"  said  the  dean,  "he  was  a  hypocrite, 
but  so  consummate  a  hypocrite  that  he  deceived  him- 
self. He  knew  that  he  loved  God  and  his  Master  and 
Friend,  but  he  did  not  know,  or  would  not  know,  that  he 
loved  Mammon — the  riches  of  this  world  and  its  pomps 
and  vanities,  its  fleeting  honors  and  transient  foam-flake 
of  fame — better.  The  bag  naturally  fell  to  him  because  it 
had  no  attractions  for  the  disciples  whose  hearts  wrere  set 
upon  heavenly  treasures  only.  The  renown  of  the  mira- 
cles he  witnessed  spread  so  that  idlers  flocked  as  to  a  show- 
to  see  them;  and  this  and  the  hope  of  the  revival  of  the 
Jewish  monarchy  which  filled  the  minds  of  all  the  disciples 
till  after  Calvary,  stimulated  the  man's  ambition,  which 
he  probably  mistook  for  devout  zeal  till  that  terrible 
hour,  when  the  contempt  and  hatred  which  fell  upon  his 
Teacher  and  Friend  made  him  desert  the  falling 
King  in  his  disappointed  ambition,  and  finally  betray 
Him. 

"I  charge  you,  my  brothers,"  continued  the  dean,  with 
a  passion  that  shook  his  audience,  "that  you  beware  of 
self-deception.  You  may  deceive  others — yea,  those  who 
love  you  most  dearly  and  live  with  you  most  intimately, 
who  sit  by  your  hearth  and  break  bread  at  your  table, 
through  long,  long  years  you  may  deceive  them ;  and  you 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

may  deceive  yourselves — you  may  devote  all  to  God,  and 
yet  keep  back  one  darling  sin,  one  cherished  iniquity  that 
is  poisoning  the  very  springs  of  your  being,  like  the 
young  man  who  made  the  great  refusal,  like  Ananias  and 
Sapphira;  but  remember,  you  cannot  deceive  God!" — 
here  the  preacher  paused  and  choked  back  a  rising  sob — 
''all  is  open  to  His  sight" — here  the  dean  trembled,  and 
his  voice  took  a  tone  of  heart-broken  anguish — "There, 
my  brothers,  up  there  is  no  shuffling." 

There  was  silence  for  some  moments  in  the  vast  build- 
ing, broken  only  by  the  deep,  quick  breathing  of  the 
hushed,  attentive  multitude,  and  the  great  secret  of  the 
dean's  power  flashed  swiftly  upon  Everard's  mind.  It 
was  the  fact  that  the  thoughts  he  was  uttering  were  not 
his  own ;  that  he  was  possessed  and  carried  away  by  some 
irresistible  power,  wfiich  forced  him  to  speak  what  was 
perhaps  pain  and  grief  to  him,  what  was  utterly  beyond 
his  will.  A  strange  power,  truly,  which  made  Ezekiel 
pronounce  his  own  dire  mischance,  and  predict  the  tak- 
ing away  the  desire  of  his  eyes  for  which  he  dared  not 
mourn;  which  made  Balaam  bless  when  he  tried  to  curse; 
and  caused  Isaiah  to  foretell  in  torrents  of  fiery  elo- 
quence things  he  desired  in  vain  to  look  into — a  great 
and  awful  gift  when  given  in  even  the  smallest  measure, 
a  gift  called  in  olden  times  prophecy,  in  these  genius. 

A  deep  awe  and  compassion  fell  upon  Everard  as  he 
looked  upon  the  agitated  and  inspired  orator,  whose  soul 
was  so  deeply  stained  with  guilt,  and  he  thought  of  the 
disobedient  prophet  and  of  other  sinful  men,  singled 
out,  in  spite  of  their  frailty,  for  the  supreme  honor  of  be- 
ing the  instruments  of  the  Divine  Will. 

"Watch  against  secret  sin,"  continued  the  preacher, 
in  a  low  and  earnest  but  distinct  and  audible  voice.  "Pray 
for  broken  hearts,  failure,  misery,  anything  but  the  grati- 
fied ambition,  the  fulfilled  heart's  desire  which  makes  it 
impossible  for  you  to  renounce  all  and  follow  Christ." 
Then  he  spoke  of  the  remorse  of  Judas  and  his  miserable 
end;  said  that  even  he  would  have  found  instant  for- 
giveness had  he  sought  or  desired  it.  But  he  probably 
did  not  think  it  would  be  given,  since  his  own  love  was 
not  large  enough  for  such  a  forgiveness,  and  he  thus 


33° 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


shrank  from  the  only  possible  healing  for  him.  "My 
brothers,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  touched  the  very  core 
of  Everard's  heart,  "the  man  we  think  most  meanly  of  is 
the  man  we  have  wronged." 

He  pointed  out  the  difference  between  repentance  and 
remorse;  drew  a  vivid  picture  of  the  latter,  which  he  said 
was  the  "sorrow  of  sorrows  and  the  worst  torture  of  hell." 
He  said  that  nothing  earthly  could  soothe  that  pain — 
not  all  the  riches  of  the  world;  not  the  esteem  of  men; 
not  the  highest  earthly  renown;  or  the  enjoyment  of 
beauty,  health,  youth;  not  all  the  pleasures  of  sense  or 
intellect;  not  the  sweetest  and  purest  treasures  of  human 
affection;  and  the  voice  in  which  he  said  this  was  so  ex- 
quisitely, so  despairingly  sad,  that  a  wave  of  intensest 
pity  rushed  over  Everard's  soul,  and  a  great  sob  rose  in 
his  throat,  and  he  knew  that  the  long  agony  of  the  prison 
life,  which  had  bowed  his  fame,  broken  his  health,  and 
shattered  his  nerves,  if  not  his  very  intellect,  was  noth- 
ing in  comparison  with  the  secret  tortures  of  the  success- 
ful man  who  stood  in  purple  and  fine  linen  before  him. 

"Repent,"  continued  the  dean,  in  a  voice  of  agonized 
supplication,  "while  repentance  is  possible.  Put  away 
the  darling  sin,  whatever  it  may  be,  before  it  is  inex- 
tricably wound  about  your  heart-strings;  remember  that 
every  moment's  delay  makes  the  heart  harder  and  the 
task  more  difficult.  Cut  off  the  right  hand,  pluck  out  the 
right  eye — ' 

He  broke  off  abruptly,  turned  pale  to  the  lips,  and 
seemed  for  a  moment  to  fight  for  breath.  "Oh,  my 
God!"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  in  low,  agonized,  shuddering 
tones,  so  different  from  the  full  voice  of  impassioned  ap- 
peal he  had  been  using,  that  they  sent  an  electric  shock 
through  the  hushed  listeners,  while  the  chill  drops  bead- 
ed his  brow,  and  he  gazed  fixedly  with  horror-struck 
eyes  before  him,  like  one  compelled  by  some  irresistible 
spell  to  gaze  on  what  his  soul  most  abhors. 

It  was  the  most  acute  moment  in  Everard's  life,  one  to 
be  remembered  when  all  else  had  faded — the  moment 
when  betrayer  and  betrayed  met  face  to  face,  gazing  into 
each  other's  eyes  under  a  fascination  that  each  strove 
vainly  to  resist  Under  the  spell  of  the  dean's  eloquence, 


THE  SILEXCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

Everard  had  gradually  advanced  his  head  from  the  shel- 
ter of  the  pillars,  the  gas-beaded  girdle  of  which,  in  the 
deepening  of  the  summer  twilight,  cast  a  strong  illumina- 
tion upon  his  features,  and  thus  attracted  the  preacher's 
gaze.  That  awful  meeting  of  glances  seemed  to  Everard 
to  endure  for  an  eternity,  during  which  the  breathing  of 
the  hushed  congregation  and  the  casual  stirring  of  a  limb 
here  and  there  were  distinctly  audible  in  the  silence. 

Who  shall  say  what  these  two  men,  between  whom 
was  so  much  love  and  such  terrible  wrong,  saw  in  the 
eyes  which  had  met  so  olten  in  friendship  in  the  far-off 
days,  when  each  trusted  the  other  so  fully?  Certain  it  is 
that  there  was  neither  rebuke  nor  reproach  in  Everard's 
gaze,  and  that  the  dominant  feeling  in  his  stirred  heart 
was  a  desire  to  comfort  the  terrible  misery  in  the  false 
friend's  eyes.  But  though  there  was  no  reproach  in  the 
honest  and  trustful  brown  eyes — sunken  as  they  were  in 
dark  orbits  caused  by  long  suffering — the  bowed,  gaunt 
form,  the  haggard,  worn  features,  the  sad  look  of  habit- 
ual hopeless  pain,  the  untimely  gray  hairs  and  aged  ap- 
pearance, struck  into  the  betrayer's  soul  like  so  many 
burning  daggers  tipped  with  poison.  He  remembered 
his  friend  as  he  had  last  seen  him  in  the  beauty  and  vigor 
of  early  manhood,  happy,  hopeful,  full  of  intellect  and 
life,  and  glowing  with  generous  feeling,  and  the  sharp 
contrast  revealed  to  him,  in  one  flash,  the  wickedness  of 
his  deed.  There  sat  the  friend  who  had  loved  and  trust- 
ed him  marred,  crushed  and  broken  by  his  own  iniquity. 

He  longed  for  the  massive  pillars  to  crumble  to  ruins, 
and  the  high  stone  roof  to  crash  in  and  hide  him  from 
that  terrible  gaze,  the  more  terrible  because  so  gentle; 
he  wished  the  solid  pavement  to  yawn  and  swallow  him 
up.  A  burning  pain  was  stabbing  him  in  the  breast,  the 
clusters  of  lights  danced  madly  among  the  shadows  be- 
fore him,  the  great  white  sea  of  human  faces  surged  in 
heaving  billows  in  his  sight,  and  his  tongue  clove  to  the 
roof  of  his  mouth  when  he  tried  to  speak. 

Long  as  it  seemed  to  those  two  awe-struck  gazers,  it 
was  in  reality  but  a  few  seconds  before  the  dean  averted 
his  gaze  by  a  strong  effort,  and  spoke. 

"I  am  not  well,"  he  said  quietly;  and,  turning,  he  de- 


332 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  M  AIT  LAND. 


scended  the  pulpit  and  vanished  among  the  shadows, 
while  a  canon  present  said  a  final  prayer  and  gave  the 
blessing. 

From  the  comments  of  the  congregation  as  they 
streamed  out  beneath  the  avenue  of  lindens,  Everard 
gathered  that  it  was  not  the  first  time  the  dean  had  been 
taken  ill  while  preaching,  the  excitement  of  which  ap- 
peared to  be  too  much  for  his  physical  strength. 

He  lingered  about  the  cathedral  precincts  in  the  pleas- 
ant summer  dusk,  through  which  a  few  pale  stars  were 
gleaming  softly,  and  listened  to  the  conversation  around 
him,  gazing  wistfully  at  the  Deanery,  under  a  strong  im- 
pulse to  enter  it.  He  contented  himself,  however,  with 
joining  a  little  group  of  workingmen,  who,  after  an  in- 
terval, went  to  the  house  and  inquired  for  the  health  of 
the  popular  preacher,  and  who  were  toid  that  the  dean 
had  recovered  from  the  spasmodic  seizure  to  which  he 
was  subject,  and  was  now  resting. 

A  clergyman  had  passed  out  of  the  cathedral  at  Ever- 
ard's  side,  with  rather  a  strange  smile  on  his  face,  and 
had  observed  to  a  lady  who  was  with  him,  "How  did  you 
like  the  play?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  returned,  with  an  indig- 
nant accent. 

"Well,  did  you  ever  see  a  better  actor  than  the  Angli- 
can Chrysostom?"  he  continued,  with  a  sarcastic  accent, 
which  caused  her  to  accuse  him  of  professional  jealousy. 

This  man  had  heard  the  last  dying  words  of  Alma  Jud- 
kins  a  few  hours  before. 

Everard  was  so  shaken  by  what  he  experienced  in  the 
cathedral,  that  he  could  not  return  to  his  hotel,  where 
his  dinner  was  awaiting  him,  but  walked  rapidly  through 
the  dim  streets  and  climbed  the  hill  to  breathe  the  free, 
fresh  air  of  the  wide  downs  whence  he  saw  the  city, 
starred  with  fire-points  lying  like  a  dropped  and  dimmed 
constellation  of  the  valley  beneath. 

There  he  thought  much,  walking  swiftly  beneath  the 
clear,  quiet  sky,  pale  in  the  June  twilight,  and  gleaming 
with  languid  stars,  until  something  of  the  holy  calm  of 
Nature  had  entered  his  breast,  and  he  returned,  quieted, 
yet  full  of  deeply  stirred  feelings,  to  the  George  Inn. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  333 

Then  he  took  a  pen  and  wrote  as  follows: 
"Dear  Cyril: — I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  was  in  the 
cathedral  to-night,  since  I  saw  with  what  pain  you  recog- 
nized me.  You  possess  the  great  secret  of  eloquence,  ear- 
nestness and  genuine  feeling,  and  your  sermon  revealed 
to  me  how  terribly  you  have  suffered.  You  will  not  be 
surprised  to  hear  that  I  know  all.  I  did  not  suspect  it 
until  that  poor  girl  swore  against  me  in  the  witness-box, 
when  the  whole  truth  flashed  upon  me,  and  every  little 
incident  connected  with  that  sad  affair  became  clear  and 
comprehensible.  That  was  the  saddest  moment  of  my  life, 
far  more  bitter  than  the  moment  of  my  conviction  or  that 
of  my  severe  sentence.  The  man  never  lived  who  was 
dearer  to  me  than  you,  and  I  revered  you  as  a  man  reveres 
his  own  conscience.  I  thought  then  that  there  could  be 
no  suffering  to  equal  mine,  but  to-night  I  learned  from 
your  own  lips,  my  poor  Cecil,  that  there  is  a  deeper  an- 
guish still,  an  anguish  that  you  have  borne  secretly  for 
eighteen  mortal  years  beneath  a  semblance  of  outward 
prosperity.  How  shall  I  comfort  you?  If  my  forgive- 
ness can  avail  anything,  it  is  yours,  fully  and  freely.  Re- 
morse, as  you  said  to-night,  is  wholly  poisonous;  it  is  fu- 
tile to  lament  the  unreturning  past.  Dear  Cyril,  let  us 
manfully  face  the  consequences,  and  cease  bewailing  what 
cannot  be  mended.  Much  peace  and  usefulness,  yes,  and 
much  happiness,  may  yet  be  yours.  I  have  suffered  not  only 
the  penalty,  but  an  exceeding  penalty  for  that  tragic  mo- 
ment in  the  wood — against  my  will,  it  is  true;  but  now  I 
ask  you,  who  believe  in  vicarious  sacrifice,  to  take  those 
eighteen  years  as  a  free  gift,  and  remember  that,  as  far 
as  this  life  is  concerned,  that  poor  fellow's  death  has 
been  amply  atoned  for.  I  see  that  you  are  struggling  with 
yourself  to  confess  and  make  atonement  before  the  world, 
but  the  time  has  gone  by  for  that,  and  it  could  avail  noth- 
ing now.  Lilian  has  always  been  convinced  of  my  in- 
nocence, and  nearly  all  others  to  whom  my  good  name 
was  dear  are  gone.  I  have  lived  through  the  ob- 
loquy as  far  as  the  world  is  concerned;  the  rev- 
elation of  the  truth  could  only  bring  sorrow  un- 
speakable to  many,  and  no  help  to  me.  Besides, 
you  have  unusual  gifts;  you  have  acquired  a 


334 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


position  and  a  character  which  give  you  singular  power 
over  men;  you  ought  not  to  trifle  with  these.  If  I  am  to 
be  useful  to  my  fellow  creatures,  it  must  be  in  quite  other 
ways.  But  you,  with  your  remarkable  gifts  and  the  great 
position  you  have  achieved,  have  also  incurred  a  great 
responsibility,  and  the  very  failings  and  faults  which  have 
caused  such  pain  have  led  you  through  such  unusual 
paths  of  spiritual  experience  as  may  give  you  unusual 
power  in  dealing  with  the  sickness  of  men's  souls.  You 
have  told  men  the  terrors  of  remorse;  tell  them  now  the 
peace  of  repentance,  the  joy  of  forgiveness.  If  you  need 
a  penance,  take  that  of  silence  on  that  one  sad  subject. 
Let  that  lie  between  you  and  me  as  a  bond  of  friendship, 
and  let  it  be  heard  in  the  ears  of  men  no  more;  and  let 
us  meet  again  on  the  old  pleasant  footing.  I  have  seen 
and  spoken  with  your  son,  and  heard  his  beautiful  voice, 
and  I  am  glad  that  he  bears  our  name.  May  Heaven's 
blessing  and  peace  be  yours  forever!  Your  friend, 

"Henry  Everard." 

It  was  not  until  the  following  morning  that  the  dean 
received  this  letter,  along  with  many  others,  at  breakfast. 

Physical  pain  had  mercifully  come  to  his  relief  in  the 
moment  of  extreme  agony  in  the  cathedral,  and  so  be- 
numbed and  clouded  his  mental  faculties.  It  had  fur- 
ther obliged  him  to  use  'a  prescription  of  his  physician's 
intended  for  such  seizures,  and  of  an  anaesthetic  nature, 
so  that  he  had  passed  the  night  in  artificial  slumber,  if 
that  could  be  called  slumber  which  was  animated  by  a 
continual  torturing  consciousness  of  the  dreaded  face  he 
had  seen  in  the  cathedral,  and  an  unspeakable  terror  of 
some  impending  descent  into  yet  greater  misery. 

Yet  he  awoke  in  the  morning  so  permeated  with  this 
dread  consciousness  that  he  had  got  to  face  the  shock  of 
emerging  from  the  balm  of  oblivion  to  a  new  and  unfa- 
miliar grief,  the  shock  that  greets  us  on  the  threshold  of 
a  new  day  with  which  a  numbing  power  in  the  begin- 
ning of  a  fresh  sorrow.  Of  course,  he  had  contemplated 
the  possibility  of  such  a  meeting  as  that  of  the  previous 
evening,  but  he  had  no  idea  it  was  so  near,  since  Lilian 
had  long  ceased  to  give  him  any  intelligence  of  Everard, 
and  also,  with  his  characteristic  unreason,  he  hoped 


THE  SILEXCE  OF  DEAN  MA1TLAND. 


335 


something  might  in  the  meantime  turn  up.     Everard's 
death  was  one  of  these  bright  possibilities. 

He  did  not  recognized  the  handwriting,  changed  as  it 
was  by  long  disuse  and  the  stiffening  of  the  joints  result- 
ing from  habitual  hard  labor,  and  ran  rapidly  through 
the  pile  of  letters,  taking  the  known  correspondents  first. 
It  was  only  when  he  had  opened  the  envelope,  and  read 
the  familiar  commencement  of  "Dear  Cyril,''  that  the 
writing  struck  a  chord  in  his  memory,  and  he  turned  with 
a  sick  dread  to  the  signature. 

Marion  saw  him  turn  livid,  and  then,  when  he  glanced 
rapidly  over  the  contents,  flush  a  deep  red.  Then  he 
laid  the  letter  aside,  and  went  on  quietly  \vith  his  break- 
fast, joining,  in  his  accustomed  manner,  in  the  house- 
hold chat;  but  he  ate  little,  which  Marion  attributed  to 
his  recent  seizure  and  the  anodyne  he  had  taken. 

Immediately  after  his  breakfast  he  went  to  his  study, 
giving  orders  to  Benson,  as  he  frequently  did,  that  he  was 
on  no  account  to  be  disturbed  till  luncheon,  at  which 
meal  he  appeared  as  usual. 

Marion  observed  and  remembered  afterward,  that  he 
was  extremely  pale  and  very  quiet,  only  addressing  her- 
self and  her  brother  occasionally,  and  then  with  unusual 
gentleness.  He  was  always  gentle  to  them,  for  he  was  a 
most  tender  father,  passionately  fond  of  his  children,  and 
having  the  art,  by  virtue  of  his  winning  manner  and  per- 
sonal charm,  to  keep  them  in  absolute  discipline  while 
indulging  them  to  the  utmost,  so  that,  without  ever  using 
a  harsh  word  to  them,  his  will  was  their  law,  and  they 
obeyed  him  without  knowing  it ;  but  to-day  his  gentleness 
amounted  to  tenderness,  and  his  voice  and  glances,  when 
he  spoke  to  them,  were  like  a  caress. 

"Well,  Marry,"  he  said,  breaking  into  a  conversation 
betW'een  the  children  and  their  tutor  and  governess,  which 
he  had  evidently  not  heard,  "what  do  you  say  to  running 
down  to  Portsmouth  to  your  Uncle  Keppel's  with  Ever- 
dird  for  a  few  days?" 

"Nothing,  papa,"  she  replied,  with  her  pretty,  spoilt 
air. 

"Would  you  not  like  to  go,  dear?"  he  asked.  "The 
sea  is  charming  just  now^,  and  all  the  naval  gayeties  are 


336  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

in  full  swing.  The  new  ironclad  is  waiting  for  you  to  in- 
spect and  help  launch  her,  and  your  cousins  are  all  at 
home,  and  Everard  would  enjoy  the  military  bands  and  the 
bathing,  eh,  laddie  ?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  will  be  a, fair  time  to  go;  but  how- 
can  you  get  aw:ay?"  said  Marion,  when  her  father  replied 
that  he  did  not  intend  to  accompany  them. 

"Then  we  don't  want  to  go,"  she  returned;  and  Everard 
indorsed  her  words  heartily. 

"You  don't  get  tired  of  your  old  father?"  he  asked,  his 
eyes  clouding  and  his  voice  quivering  a  little. 

"There  never  was  such  a  daddy-sick  pair,"  laughed  Miss 
Mackenzie. 

"But  you  cannot  always  be  tied  on  to  the  old  father/' 
said  the  dean,  pinching  Marion's  soft  cheek.  "Come,  now, 
suppose  you  pack  up  your  smartest  bonnets  and  frocks, 
and  Everard's  violin,  and  run  down  this  afternoon. 
*  Your  aunt  Keppel  will  be  at  the  station  to  meet  you  at 
six." 

"To-day?  Oh,  papa!  what  can  possess  you?"  cried 
Marion. 

"Oh,  not  till  Monday!"  pleaded  Everard.  "I  am  to  take 
a  solo  to-morrow  afternoon." 

"Never  mind  the  solo,  lad,"  said  his  father,  looking 
wistfully  on  the  boy's  sightless  face.  "Doctor  Rydal  will 
recover  from  the  shock ;  a  little  adversity  will  do  him  good, 
autocrat  that  he  is.  You  will  go,  darlings,  by  the  4:30 
train.  And  if  the  bonnets  and  frocks  are  not  smart  enough 
for  the  fashionable  Southsea,  you  can  get  what  you  want 
there.  Here  is  a  check,  Marry.  And  there,  Everard,  is 
a  sovereign  for  you  to  buy  toffee  with.  Herr  Obermann 
is  tired  of  his  unmanageable  pupil,  and  will  be  glad  of 
a  holiday  to  rummage  over  old  parchments  with  Canon 
Drake;"  and  the  dean  rose  from  the  table  with  a 
look  that  said  the  business  was  concluded,  and 
strolled  languidly  into  the  garden,  Everard's  hand  in 
his. 

"Miss  Mackenzie,"  said  Marion,  remaining  behind  a 
minute,  "there  is  something  unusual  about  papa  to-day. 
Do  you  think  I  ought  to  leave  him?  He  ate  nothing;  he 
looks  ill." 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAX  MAITLAND, 


337 


"He  is  always  languid  and  weak  after  one  of  his  at- 
tacks, Marry.  The  great  thing  is  not  to  worry  him,  and 
of  course,  he  has  a  great  deal  on  his  mind  now.  Perhaps, 
until  the  bishopric  business  is  quite  decided,  he  would 
rather  have  you  out  of  the  way." 

Miss  Mackenzie's  words  were  reasonable,  and  Marlon 
felt  that  she  must  abide  by  them,  and  yet  she  could  not 
conquer  the  vague  disquiet  she  felt  on  her  fathers  ac- 
count. She  followed  him  into  the  old-fashioned,  red- 
walled  garden  with  a  solicitude  hitherto  unknown  in  her 
spoiled-child  existence,  and  watched  him  narrowly. 

"You  are  becoming  a  perfect  ogre,  daddy,  hustling  us 
off  in  this  despotic  manner;  now,  isn't  he,  Everard?"  she 
said,  joining  them. 

"A  regular  tyrant,"  laughed  the  boy.  "But,  I  say, 
why  can't  you  come  with  us,  papa?  It  is  on  your  way  to 
Osborne." 

"Of  course  it  is;  how  delightful!"  added  Marion. 

"I  am  not  going  to  Osborne,"  replied  the  dean. 

"Not  going  to  dine  at  Osborne  to-night?"  exclaimed 
the  children,  who  knew  that  a  royal  invitation  is  also  a 
command.  "Why,  what  will,  the  Queen  say?  Will  she 
send  you  to  the  Tower?"  asked  Everard,  his  mind  filled 
with  visions  of  scaffolds  and  axes. 

"Never  mind  the  Queen,"  said  the  dean,  sitting  down 
on  a  garden  seat  and  placing  the  boy  between  his  knees, 
and  passing  his  arm  around  the  girl  with  a  grave  and  pre- 
occupied air,  which  surprised  his  daughter,  whom  he  was 
"  wont  perpetually  to  tease  and  banter  in  a  way  that  she 
thought  delightful.  Neither  of  them  spoke  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  the  dean  asked  the  children  if  they 
were  happy,  and  they  replied  heartily  in  the  affirmative, 
adding  that  they  were  always  happy  with  him,  and 
thought  all  pleasures  dull  without  him. 

"I  have  tried  to  make  you  happy,"  he  said,  in  his  rich, 
pathetic  tones;  "I  have  wished  so  much  to  give  you  a 
happy  youth  to  look  back  upon.  My  own  youth  \vas 
very,  very  happy,  and  I  have  always  been  so  thankful  for 
it;  it  is  a  possession  for  a  whole  lifetime,  in  spite  of  the 
sorrow  with  which  the  world  is  filled,  and  which  we  must 
all  plunge  into  sooner  or  later.  Your  father  is  a  sinful 


338  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

man,  dear  children,  but  he  has  tried  to  be  good  to  you — 
that  has  been  his  greatest  earthly  aim.  And  you  have 
been  dutiful  and  affectionate.  I  am  a  successful  man,  and 
have  been  able  to  give  you  a  pleasant  home,  but  who  can 
say  if  it  may  last?  Trouble  may  come — we  may  be  parted. 
Well,  dears,  if  that  time  comes,  think  gently  of  the  father 
who,  whatever  his  faults  were,  earnestly  sought  his  chil- 
dren's happiness." 

The  children  protested  with  half-frightened  affection; 
but  he  scarcely  heeded  them,  and,  gently  unwinding  their 
clasping  hands,  withdrew,  unable  to  speak  for  tears,  and, 
waving  them  off  with  a  gesture  of  command,  went  back  to 
his  study. 

"Oh,  Marry,"  cried  Everard,  "something  dreadful  has 
happened. '  Perhaps  the  Queen  is  angry.  What  can  it 
be?" 

Marion  comforted  him  with  all  the  wisdom  of  her  six- 
teen years,  saying  that  there  was  probably  some  hitch 
about  the  bishopric,  and  this  had  saddened  their  father. 

He  took  them  to  the  station  and  saw  them  off,  arrang- 
ing all  he  could  for  their  comfort  and  security,  and  em- 
braced them  on  the  public  platform  with  unusual  tender- 
ness, apparently  oblivious  of  all  the  bustle  and  noise  going 
on  around  him.  He  put  a  basket  of  fruit  into  their  hands 
to  refresh  them  on  the  road  when  they  were  in  the  car- 
riage, and  then  stood  on  the  step  and  kissed  and  blessed 
them  solemnly  once  more,  and,  when  the  train  finally 
moved  off,  stood  wistfully  gazing  until  the  last  flutter  of 
Marion's  handkerchief  was  invisible  in  the  distance. 

All  her  life  Marion  remembered  his  yearning  gaze  and 
his  pale,  sad  face,  as  he  stood  without  a  trace  of  his  usual 
playful  animation  when  in  their  presence,  a  solitary  black 
figure,  watching  them  with  his  hand  shading  his  eyes,  until 
the  distance  had  swallowed  them  up. 

"Can  you  see  him  still?"  asked  the  blind  boy. 

"Not  now;  he  is  lost,"  replied  Marion;  and  she  burst 
into  tears  under  the  pressure  of  an  indefinable  sadness. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  M AIT  LAND.  339 

CHAPTER  V. 

Everard  slept  like  an  infant  after  writing  his  letter,  and 
rose  full  of  eager  hope  and  trembling  anticipation  on  the 
morrow,  remembering  that  the  day  had  at  last  dawned 
when  he  was  to  meet  Lilian  once  more. 

He  might  have  seen  her  many  times  during  his  impris- 
onment, but  he  could  not  endure  that  she  should  submit 
to  the  restraints  necessarily  imposed  on  convicts'  visitors, 
or  that  she  should  see  him  in  his  humiliation,  and  had  thus 
declined  her  offered  visits.  He  could  not  even  bear  to 
go  to  her  straight  from  prison ;  he  felt  that  some  days  at 
least  were  necessary  to  carry  off  the  prison  air  and  take 
away  the  contamination  of  those  hated  walls.  He  looked 
in  a  glass,  and  sighed  deeply,  thinking  that  he  saw  plainly 
written  all  over  him,  "ticket-of-leave  man."  As  for  his 
hands,  which  he  had  treated  with  unguents  and  cosmetics, 
and  kept  night  and  day  in  gloves,  he  looked  at  them  in 
despair.  The  flattened  finger-tips,  broken  and  discolored 
nails,  distorted  joints,  and  horn-hardened  palms  were  be- 
yond redemption.  It  seemed  to  his  sensitive  fancy  that  all 
the  world  must  know  as  well  as  he  that  his  peculiar  gait 
was  the  result  of  the  irons  he  had  worn  after  his  brief  es- 
cape, and  the  sick  thought  came  to  him  that  his  intellect 
must  be  as  much  marred  as  his  body.  He  felt  utterly 
ruined. 

He  lingered  about  Belminster  till  the  afternoon,  secretlv 
cherishing  a  hope  that  Cyril  might  send  some  letter  or 
message  to  the  Gorge  for  him ;  but  nothing  came,  and  he 
took  his  seat  in  the  train  with  a  disappointed  heart. 

A  clergyman,  in  a  round  felt  hat  with  a  rosette  and  the 
longest  of  coats,  was  just  stepping  out  of  the  down  train 
as  Everard  was  stepping  in.  They  came  face  to  face,  and 
Everard  stepped  back  to  allow  the  other  to  pass,  thus  gain- 
ing a  full  and  prolonged  view  of  his  features,  while  the 
clergyman  passed  gravely  on,  carelessly  scanning  Ever- 
ard's  face  without  a  gleam  of  recognition  in  his  own.  But 
Everard  knew  him  at  once.  It  was  his  brother 
George. 

Everard  got  in,  the  doors  banged,  the  train  moved  off, 
and  he  found  that  his  carriage  was  shared  by  an  elderly 


340  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

man  with  a  clever,  keen  face,  which  seemed  strangely  fa- 
miliar to  him,  though  he  could  not  identify  it,  search  his 
memory  as  he  would.  The  old  gentleman  apparently  had 
the  same  degree  of  memory  for  Everard,  since,  after  his 
first  searching  glance  at  him  when  he  entered  the  car- 
riage, he  kept  giving  him  furtive  and  puzzled  looks  over 
his  papers.  Presently  the  papers  of  both  gentlemen  were 
laid  aside,  and  the  stranger  moved  over  to  the  corner  seat 
opposite  Everard,  evidently  prepared  for  a  friendly  chat, 
and  made  some  remark  on  the  line  over  which  they  were 
passing.  His  voice  sent  a  strange  tremor  through  Ever- 
ard's  too  sensitive  nerves,  and,  after  a  brief  interchange 
of  commonplace,  he  told  his  vis-a-vis  that  his  face  and 
voice  were  familiar  to  him,  but  that  he  was  unable  to  recall 
his  name. 

"You  are  associated  in  my  mind  with  something  of  a 
distressing  nature,"  he  added. 

"I  was  just  about  to  observe  the  same  with  regard  to 
you,"  replied  his  new-found  acquaintance,  "save  that  you 
are  associated  with  nothing  distressing  to  me.  To  tell 
the  truth,  my  features  are  associated  with  distressing  cir- 
cumstances in  a  great  many  people's  minds,"  he  added, 
laughing.  "My  name  is  Manby,  Sir  William  Manby,"  lie 
explained,  with  the  air  of  one  uttering  a  rich  joke. 

"I  now  remember  you  perfectly,"  returned  Everard, 
quietly,  "though  I  cannot  claim  the  honor  of  your  ac- 
quaintance. My  name  is  Everard,  Henry  Oswald  Ever- 
ard, and  when  I  last  saw  you,  you  sentenced  me  to  twenty 
years'  penal  servitude  for  a  crime  which  I  never  commit 
ted." 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  the  judge,  starting  back  with 
momentary  dismay,  but  quickly  recovering  himself,  and 
putting  up  his  gold-rimmed  eye-glasses  and  closely  scruti- 
nizing him.  "Henry  Everard,  to  be  sure!  Yes,  yes,  I  re- 
member the  case  perfectly.  The  jury  were  unanimous,  the 
evidence  clear;"  and  the  judge  thought  within  himself  that 
to  be  alone  in  a  railway  carriage  with  a  man  one  has  given 
twenty  years  for  a  manslaughter  one  believes  to  be  murder 
is  an  awkward  thing. 

"The  evidence  was  indeed  clear,"  said  Everard,  "but  it 
was  misleading,  nevertheless,  and  there  was  a  terrible  mis- 
carriage of  justice." 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  M AIT  LAND.  34.1 

The  quiet  air  with  which  he  spoke,  and  the  look  of  his 
careworn  face,  impressed  the  judge.  He  could  not  help 
giving  some  credence  to  his  words. 

"If  you  were  indeed  not  guilty,  Doctor  Everard,"  he 
said,  after  looking  thoughtfully  at  him  for  some  mo- 
ments, "there  must  have  been  some  very  hard  swear- 
ing." 

"There  was,"  replied  Everard.  "There  was  perjury  on 
the  part  of  one  witness." 

"Its  motive?" 

"To  shield  the  real  culprit." 

"The  law  gives  you  a  remedy  if  you  can  but  prove  the 
perjury,"  said  the  judge. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  prosecute,"  replied'  Everard.  "Besides, 
what  court  can  give  me  back  those  years  of  imprison- 
ment?" 

"How  many  did  you  serve?" 

"Eighteen." 

"Eighteen  years,"  returned  the  judge,  his  thoughts  run- 
ning back  through  that  period  of  time,  and  taking  count 
of  the  things  that  had  occurred  and  the  changes  that  had 
been  wrought  in  it;  "eighteen  years!  And  you  were  then 
a  young  man." 

Everard  smiled  sadly  at  the  contrast  these  words  im- 
plied. 

"Then,  you  are  only  recently  unlodged?"  Sir  William 
added. 

"Last  Monday.    I  have  a  ticket  of  leave." 

The  judge  looked  at  the  broken  and  prematurely  aged 
man  with  an  inward  shudder.  He  thought  of  the  long 
line  of  malefactors  he  had  sentenced,  not  only  to  imprison- 
ment, but  even  to  death,  and  wondered  if  he  could  have 
pronounced  those  sentences  if  he  had  been  doomed  to  see 
them  carried  out. 

"I  well  remember  the  pain  writh  which  I  passed  your 
sentence,"  he  said.  "A  judge  need  have  a  heart  of  iron 
and  nerves  of  steel.  But  the  evidence  \vas  so  clear." 

"You  could  do  no  otherwise.  The  jury  found  me  guilty, 
and  I  could  not  clear  myself." 

"Eighteen  years,"  continued  the  judge,  in  a  voice  which 
had  a  quiver  in  it.  "I  am  an  old  man,  Doctor  Everard, 
an  old  man,  and  it  cannot  be  manv  vears  at  the 


342  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

latest  before  I  must  stand  at  the  bar  of  a  justice  that 
cannot  miscarry,  but  if  I  thought  I  had  condemned  a 
fellow-creature  unjustly  to  eighteen  years'  imprisonment 
with  hard  labor — " 

"Do  not  think  it,  dear  sir,"  interrupted  Everard,  trying 
to  soothe  the  rising  agitation  in  the  old  man's  mind;  "the 
injustice  cannot  be  laid  to  your  charge.  No  human 
tribunal  can  be  infallible ;  but,  as  you  say,  there  is  a  Judge 
who  cannot  err,  and  when  you  and  I  are  confronted  at 
that  bar,  your  verdict  upon  me  will  be  reversed  without 
blame  to  yourself.'' 

"I  trust  so,  I  trust  so,"  replied  the  old  man;  "and,  in 
the  mean  time,  I  hope  that  you  bear  me  no  ill-will." 

"Heaven  forbid,  whose  instrument  you  are  !"  returned 
Everard,  taking  and  warmly  pressing  the  hand  the  judge 
offered  him. 

"I  shall  desire  your  further  acquaintance,  sir,"  said  the 
old  gentleman,  when  the  train  steamed  into  the  Oldport 
Station;  "if  not  now,  in  a  better  world  than  this." 

And  they  parted,  Everard  leaving  the  carriage,  and 
standing  with  a  throbbing  heart  on  the  platform,  while 
his  portmanteau  was  placed  on  a  fly,  and  thinking  how 
great  was  the  contrast  between  his  manner  of  leaving  that 
station  and  returning  to  it.  He  felt  it  in  the  keen 
wintry  fog,  with  handcuffed  wrists,  in  charge  of  consta- 
bles, and  returned  shaking  hands  with  his  judge  in  the 
warm  June  sunshine. 

It  was  strange  to  see  the  little  well-knoxvn  town  basking 
in  the  summer  heat,  and  rilled  with  the  familiar,  homely 
stir  of  the  market-day,  just  as  it  had  done  all  those  years 
ago,  and  he  looked  about  at  the  houses  and  shops,  with 
their  friendly  air  of  recognition,  to  see  if  there  were  any 
faces  he  knew7.  There  stood  the  town  hall,  the  earliest 
scene  of  his  terrible  humiliation,  with  its  familiar  colon- 
nade and  balcony,  its  clock  striking  four  in  the  old  home- 
like tones,  and  the  gilt  figures  on  its  dial  burning  in  the 
bright  sunbeams.  The  stolid  policemen  were  standing 
in  the  square  in  front  of  it,  as  they  had  done  in  the  days 
of  his  trial.  He  recognized  one,  a  gray-headed  man  in 
the  stripes  and  dress  of  a  sergeant,  as  the  middle-aged 
constable  who  had  conducted  him  to  the  magisterial 
presence,  and  wondered  if  the  man  remembtred  him. 


THE.  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  343 

The  carriage  seemed  at  the  same  time  to  crawl  and  to 
fly  in  the  medley  of  feelings  which  urged  him  onward  and 
backward.  Would  they  never  get  out  of  Oldport?  The 
streets  were  cumbered  with  carriers'  carts  and  wagons; 
droves  of  pigs  and  bewildered  cattle;  dense-looking 
farmers,  shabbily  dressed,  but  concealing  a  fund  of  shrewd 
sense  beneath  their  stolid  countenances,  and  having  well- 
lined  pocket-books  in  their  queer  old  coat-pockets,  and 
denser-looking  laborers,  whose  heavy  air  of  stupidity  was 
half  assumed  and  half  on  the  surface. 

Smart  new  suburbs  had  put  forth  a  pert  growth  in  those 
eighteen  years  and  joined  the  little  town  to  its  quiet 
village  neighbor,  Chalkburne,  the  solid  gray  tower  of 
which  looked  down  as  usual  from  its  centuries  of  gray 
calm  on  the  fitful  stir  and  fret  around  it,  and  the  fevered 
hopes  and  fears  that  must  end  at  last  in  the  quiet  green 
mounds  at  its  feet.  And  now  at  last  the  hill  beyond 
Chalkburne  was  climbed;  they  were  on  the  white  chalk 
road  that  wound  along  by  the  downs.  There  were  th€ 
woods  of  Swaynestone  in  the  distance,  and  beyond  them 
the  unseen  tower  of  Malbourne  Church,  and  beneath 
that  the  Rectory,  with  its  long-buried  treasure  of  love  and 
hope  and  trust 

The  little  bays  along  the  coast  shone  in  azure  calm, 
and  showed  the  silver  gleam  of  a  sail  here  and  there ;  the 
woods  spread  their  fresh  green  domes  toward  the  sea ;  the 
scent  of  mown  grass  filled  the  air,  and  the  brown-armed 
hay-makers  were  busy  in  the  meadows.  It  was  all  so 
familiar,  and  yet  so  strange  to  his  prison-worn  eyes. 

Now  they  passed  Swaynestone,  where  Sir  Lionel 
reigned  no  more,  having  been  gathered  to  his  fathers; 
and  there,  on  the  left,  stood  the  sham  Creek  temple,  its 
colonnade  gleaming  white  in  the  sunlight,  and  its  archi- 
trave sharply  outlined  against  the  fatal  green  coppice 
cresting  the  hill  behind  it.  Everard  could  not  see  this 
spot,  the  source  of  so  much  misery,  without  a  shudder, 
nor  could  the  tenderer  associations  of  his  walk  there  with 
Lilian  efface  the  horror  of  it  from  his  mind. 

And  now  that  too  was  left  behind,  and  there  were  only 
a  few  fields  between  him  and  Malbourne,  and  his  pulses 
throbbed.  All  these  pleasant  home  scenes  were  the  same 
as  m  Hie  old  times,  only  the  eyes  which  looked  upon 


344  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

them  were  changed.  Not  a  homestead  or  cottage  was 
removed;  there  were  no  new  buildings.  The  workshops 
of  the  wheelwright  were  now  in  sight.  He  could  see  a 
man  in  a  paper  cap  hammering  in  its  dark  interior;  then 
the  cottage,  with  its  wicket  opening  on  to  the  road,  and 
its  two  lime-trees  arching  over  the  path  in  front  of  the 
porch ;  then  the  yard,  cumbered  with  a  litter  of  timber  and 
broken-down  wagons,  the  scene  of  endless  games  with 
Cyril  and  the  wheelwright's  boys;  and  then  the  corner  was 
turned,  and  the  well-known  village  street,  with  the  square, 
gray  tower  at  the  end,  lay  before  him. 

He  stopped  at  the  Sun,  to  leave  his  portmanteau.  He 
felt  that  he  could  not  go  on;  a  sudden  horror  overwhelmed 
him  at  the  sight  of  the  home  he  had  left  so  different  a  be- 
ing, and  all  the  degradation  and  suffering  of  those  eighteen 
years  seemed  to  rise  up  and  stand  between  him  and  the 
woman  for  whom  he  had  dreamed  so  different  a  destiny. 
He  had  pictured  this  moment  so  often  in  the  solitude  of 
his  cell,  and  dwelt  with  such  rapture  upon  his  reunion  with 
Lilian  at  the  end  of  all  that  bitter  misery,  that  he  had  not 
thought  of  the  terrible  change  time  and  suffering  had 
wrought  in  him  till  now,  when  it  rushed  in  upon  him  like 
a  flood. 

Love  never  grows  old;  the  lover  is  always  the  same 
within,  and  Everard's  mental  pictures  of  Lilian  and  him- 
self always  portrayed  them  both  in  the  flower  of  youth, 
and  were  filled  with  youth's  tender  glamour.  Perhaps  he 
even  thought  unconsciously  that  their  meeting  would  ef- 
face the  ravages  of  those  weary  years  from  his  life,  with  all 
that  was  sorrowful  and  distressing. 

And  now  he  stood  within  sight  of  the  roof  that  shel- 
tered her,  face  to  face  with  the  sorrowful  fact  that  youth 
had  vanished  forever,  and  that  the  best  part  of  the  life 
they  should  have  spent  together  was  gone  beyond  recall. 
Only  the  fragments  of  life  remained  now — only  the  wrecks 
and  floating  spars  of  his  own  ship  of  life  and  of 
Lilian's. 

He  now  remembered  that  she  too  must  have  changed. 
Her  youth  was  also  gone;  incredible  as  it  appeared,  she 
too  had  suffered  and  borne  the  weight  of  sorrow-laden 
years.  What  if  they  should  not  be  able  to  recognize  each 
other?  What  if  each  found  a  si-ran  ov»r  in  the  place  of  the 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  M AIT  LAND.  345 

beloved?  Would  not  their  meeting  be  too  severe  a  test 
for  human  constancy? 

Shaken  by,  these  half-morbid  thoughts,  the  broken  man 
entered  the  little  hostelry,  and,  taking  pen  and  ink,  wrote 
to  apprise  Lilian  of  his  arrival,  and  to  appoint  an  hour  for 
calling  at  the  Rectory;  for  he  felt  that  he  could  not  go 
there  unexpectedly,  and  drop  in  like  a  chance  visitor,  with 
the  possibility  of  seeing  her  for  the  first  time  in  public. 
He  wished  also  to  warn  her  that  she  must  not  expect  to 
see  the  Henry  of  old  days  again,  but  only  the  shattered 
wreck  of  a  man  who  had  long  left  youth  and  hope  be- 
hind. 

Having  dispatched  the  note,  he  sat  down  and  waited  in 
the  little  parlor  assigned  him,  in  a  state  of  tense  excite- 
ment, which  made  the  slightest  sound,  the  ticking  of  a 
clock,  the  sound  of  wheel  or  hoof  on  the  road,  unbearable. 

At  last  he  sprang  up  and  passed  through  the  open 
French  window  into  the  old-fashioned  cottage  garden, 
where  stood  a  rude  summer-house,  with  a  table  and  wood- 
en settles,  in  which  the  village  parliament  was  often  held  on 
summer  evenings.  A  side-window  of  the  bar  gave  upon 
the  garden,  and,  pacing  restlessly  up  and  down  the  flagged 
path,  Everard  heard  through  the  casement,  which  stood 
open  to  the  summer  air,  the  familiar  twang  of  the  local 
dialect  borne  by  rustic  voices  upon  his  ear. 

He  glanced  in  as  he  passed,  and  recognized  a  face  or 
two  through  all  the  mists  and  shadows  of  those  years. 
George  Straun,  the  burly  blacksmith,  stood  as  sturdy  as 
ever,  though  his  hair  was  now  well  powdered  by  the  hand 
of  Time.  He  recognized  Stevens,  the  clerk,  the  years 
having  altered  his  outward  man  but  little,  though  they 
had  made  him  more  garrulous  and  opinionated  than 
ever. 

"Ay,  Jarge  Straun,"  he  was  saying,  "there's  a  vine 
weight  of  grass  hereabouts,  zure-ly.  I  don't  mind  a  heavier 
crop  as  I  knows  on  this  twenty  year.  Athout  'twas  the  year 
Ben  Lee  come  by's  death." 

"I  minds  that  there  crop,"  returned  William  Grove, 
whom  Everard  had  not  recognized — "well  I  minds  'un. 
That  there  spring  there  was  a  power  o'  hrain  come 
down." 

"And  a  vine  zummer  as  ever  I  zee,"  added  Stevens, 


346  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

"and  the  graves  as  easy  to  dig  as  easy;  the  sile  entirely 
crumbed  up  wi'  the  drought,  a  did.  And  the  grass  was 
well  zaved.  Granfer,  'ee  zaid  as  how  'ee  didn't  mind  more'n 
dree  or  vour  zummers  like  he  all's  life,  Granfer  didn't.  That 
was  the  zummer  ater  Dr.  Everard  done  for  poor  Ben  Lee 
—ay,  that  'twas." 

"Ah!"  growled  the  blacksmith,  withdrawing  his  broad 
face  from  the  eclipse  of  his  pewter  pot,  and  passing  his 
hand  slowly  over  his  mouth,  "he  never  done  that,  Dr. 
Everard  didn't." 

"Zo  you  zays,  Jarge  Straun.  And  zay  it  you  med  till  you 
was  black  i'  the  vaace,  but  you  wouldn't  vetch  'un  out  o' 
jail,"  retorted  Stevens,  resuming  a  battle  that  had  raged 
incessantly  for  the  last  eighteen  years  between  the  village 
worthies,  whom  the  question  had  split  into  two  unequal 
factions. 

"I  zeen  'un  myself,"  continued  Straun,  leader  of  the  not 
guilty  faction,  "a-gwine  down  street  in  the  vull  daylight. 
And  he  hadn't  no  gray  clo'es  on.  'S  coat  was  so  black  as 
my  hat.  Well  I  minds  'un !  Passed  the  time  o'  da,  he  did, 
and  looked  as  pleased  as  Punch.  He  never  done  vur  Ben 
Lee,  bless  ye!" 

"You  be  ter'ble  clever,  Jarge  Straun;  but  you  never  kep' 
'un  out  o'  jail  wi'  all  yer  cleverness,"  said  Stevens.  "You 
never  zeen  no  black  coat  that  arternoon,  'thout  'twas  yer 
own.  Why,  Lard  love  ye,  I  zeen  'un  myself,  as  I  zaid  avore 
the  justices.  He  come  out  o'  Rectory  gairden,  and  went 
up  vield  wi'  's  gray  clo'es  on.  He  couldn't  'a  been  in  two 
places  at  a  time,  nor  he  couldn't  'a  wore  two  coats  at  a 
time,  ye  noghead.  I  zeen  'un  's  plain  as  plums,  I  tell  'ec. 
I  passes  'un  the  time  o'  day,  and  he  never  zeemed  to  hear 
and  never  zaid  nothun.  Vur  why?  He  was  a-gwine  out 
a-breakin'  the  Ten  Commandments,  a-murderin'  o'  poor 
Ben  Lee." 

"He  never  done  it,"  reiterated  the  blacksmith,  stolidly. 

"Not  he  didn't,"  added  William  Grove.  "He  zeen  my 
little  maid  and  give  her  a  penny,  and  she've  a  got  'un 
now." 

"And'  he  zeen  Granfer  at  vive  o'clack,  when  them  maids 
s\i;ore  they  zeen  him  come  home  in  's  gray  clo'es,"  added 
Hale,  the  wheelwright.  "And  he  ast  Granfer  if 
he'd  a-yeard  the  bell-team  go  by,  he  did.  And  Granfer 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  347 

time,  not  as  I  knows  on,  I  ain't/  he  zays,  zays  Granfer. 
And  Dr.  Everard,  he  zays  a  power  o'  things  to  Granfer — 
many  a  time  Granfer  have  a  zaid  it  in  this  yer  Sun  Inn — 
a  power  o'  things  Dr.  Everard  zaid,  and  a  power  o'  things 
Granfer  said  to  he.  And  Dr.  Everard,  he  out  wi'  a 
shil'n'  and  gives  it  to  Granfer.  And  he  keeps  that  there 
shil'n'  to  's  dying  day,  Granfer  does.  And  there  ain't  a 
man  in  this  yer  bar  but  have  zeen  that  ar  shil'n'  and 
a-handled  'un,''  he  concluded,  triumphantly  looking 
round  with  the  sense  of  having  finally  clinched  his  argu- 
ment. 

"Ay,  William  Hale,"  returned  Stevens,  sarcastically, 
"you've  got  a  power  o'  words  inzide  o'  ye,  when  zo  be  as 
you  can  zim  to  bring  'em  out.  But  Zir  Ingram,  he  zeen 
'un  a  runnin'  across  that  ar  vield  just  avore  vive.  Ay, 
it's  a  likely  thing  as  Zir  Ingram  shouldn't  know  if  he  zeen 
a  man  or  a  mouse.  The  likes  o'  he  don't  goo  a-swearin' 
they  zeen  what  they  never  zeen.  Granfer — I  won't  zay 
nothin'  agen  he — he'd  a  powerful  mind,  had  Granfer, 
but,  Lard  love  ye,  what's  a  powerful  mind  agen  a  eddica- 
tion  like  Zir  Ingram's?  Granfer,  he'd  a  giv'  his  mind  to 
most  things,  but  he  hadn't  had  no  book-larning,  zo  to  zay, 
hadn't  Granfer.  He  could  count,  and  he  could  read  print 
wi'  leavin'  out  the  big  words,  zo  well  as  any  man  I  knows 
on,  but 's  eddication  was  effective ;  it  didn't  come  up  to  Zir 
Ingram's  college  scholarding,  it  didn't.  Naw,  naw." 

A  pause  ensued,  the  little  company  feeling  crushed  by 
the  weight  of  Stevens'  long  words,  a  species  of  powerful 
artillery  that  he  only  brought  to  bear  on  his  adversary 
when  hard  pressed.  Then  Tom  Hale,  who  some  time  ere 
this  had  beaten  his  sword  into  a  wheelwright's  tools,  took 
he  up  and  zays,  'I  ain't  a-yeard  'un  go  by  zince  dir.ner- 
up  his  parable  on  this  wise : 

"He  never  done  it,  Doctor  Everard  didn't." 

"If  he  never  done  it,  who  did?"  inquired  the  landlord, 
pertinently. 

"Darn  it  all!"  said  William  Grove,  driving  his  hand 
through  his  bushy  hair  in  dire  perplexity,  and  repeating 
the  phrase  he  had  used  any  time  this  eighteen  years, 
"zomebody  done  it.  Why,  I  vound  the  body  meself! 
Well  I  minds  it.  'Twas  a  vrosty  night,  and  I  vound  'un 
all  stiff  and  stark.  Nobody  can't  zay  nothin'  agen  that, 


348  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

when  I  zeen  'un  vvi'  my  own  eyes.  And  I  run  into  Master 
Hale's  as  was  keepin'  up  New  Year's  Eve  wi'  a  party,  and 
I  zays,  and  you  yeard  me  plain  enough,  'Lord  'a  massy 
on  us!'  I  zays,  zays  I,  'they  ben  and  done  vur  poor  Ben 
Lee!'  I  zays;  and  Granfer,  he  yeard  me." 

"Ay,  and  Granfer  he  ups  and  zays,  zays  he,  'You  med 
all  mark  my  words,'  he  zays,  'somebody'll  ha'e  to  swing 
fur  this  yer.'  Them  was  Granfer's  words,"  said  the  wheel- 
wright, looking  round  with  great  solemnity. 

"Zomebody  done  it,"  continued  Stevens,  with  author- 
ity, "and  if  'twasn't  Doctor  Everard,  who  was  it  as  done 
it?  Athout  'twas  Mr.  Maitland  hisself,"  he  added,  with 
intense  sarcasm,  "or  maybe  Mr.  Cyril.  Zomebody  done 
it,  that's  as  plain  as  plums." 

"He  never  done  it,"  repeated  the  sturdy  blacksmith,  fin- 
ishing his  ale  and  stamping  off  homeward  with  a  sullen 
"Good-night"  to  all. 

"There  was  Alma  Lee,"  continued  the  landlord,  who 
never  liked  a  good  argument  conducing  to  the  dryness  of 
the  inner  man  to  drop,  "she  knowed  who  done  it.  And 
she  sweared  dead  agen  the  doctor,  she  did." 

"And  she  med  swear,"  commented  William  Grove;  "she 
was  a  bad  'un.  Them  there  stuck-up  gals  isn't  never  up  to 
no  good.  Mr.  Maitland,  and  they  up  Rectory,  they  had 
the  sp'ilin'  o'  she." 

"Ay!"  growled  the  wheelwright;  "poor  Charlie  Judkins! 
What  he  took  out  to  'Merriky  wi'  'un  warn't  no  account, 
nohow." 

"A  baddish  cargo  'twas,"  added  Tom  Hale;  and  the 
whole  company  joined  in  condemning  the  unfortunate  girl 
with  the  wholesale  condemnation  dealt  out  by  men  to  the 
woman  who  makes  the  smallest  slip  on  the  slippery  path 
of  right. 

Just  then  the  dear  old  familiar  voice  of  the  church  clock 
told  the  hour,  sending  a  quiver  through  Everard's  frame 
with  every  stroke  of  its  mellow  bell ;  and,  passing  through 
the  garden  gate  into  the  village  street,  he  bent  his  -steps 
toward  the  Rectory. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAX  MAITLAND.  349 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Every  feature  of  the  well-remembered  scene  was  the 
same,  only  the  faces  of  the  people  were  altered.  Men  were 
working  in  their  little  gardens,  women  standing  at  wicket 
gates  with  babies  in  their  arms,  children  playing  in  the 
dusty  road.  The  forge  w^as  all  aglow,  its  furnace  show- 
ing lurid  red  in  contrast  with  the  evening  sunbeams. 
Straun's  eldest  son,  a  stout  fellow  over  thirty,  was  dealing 
his  ringing  blows  upon  the  anvil,  in  the  cheery  familiar 
rhythm  of  his  crak. 

The  little  band  of  children  who  always  cluster  about  a 
forge  were  sporting  round  it,  and  turned  to  stare  at  the 
stranger.  A  tiny  creature  tottered  away  from  its  child- 
nurse,  and  stood  open-armed  in  Everard's  path,  greeting 
him  with  a  joyous  gurgle.  He  patted  the  flaxen  head, 
and  passed  on  with  a  kind  word.  He  was  glad  to  see 
children  run  to  him  with  confidence. 

Every  step  on  the  familiar  path  made  his  heart  beat 
more  wildly.  Something  was  rising  chokingly  in  his 
throat,  so  that  he  was  afraid  to  trust  himself  farther  on, 
and  paused,  leaning  against  the  church-yard  wall,  behind 
which  he  could  see  the  inscription  on  Granfer's  tomb- 
stone, and  imagined  that  he  saw  female  figures  emerging 
from  the  Rectory  gate  or  strolling  under  the  trees,  and 
asked  himself,  "Is  it  she?" 

It  was  no  fancy.  A  tangible,  solid  woman's  form  was 
indeed  pacing,  heavily  pacing,  the  gravel  drive;  the  form 
was  stout,  the  hair  iron-gray,  the  gait  clumsy.  A  sick 
fear  took  him,  and  he  remembered  that  Lilian  was  five- 
and-twenty  eighteen  long  years  ago.  The  lady  opened 
the  gate  and  issued  forth,  her  features  showing  distinctly 
in  the  rich  sunlight.  They  were  heavy,  commonplace, 
and  quietly  contented,  and  he  did  not  recognize  the  once 
pretty  Miss  Garrett  of  Northover,  now  the  mother  of  half 
a  dozen  stout  lads. 

He  recovered  from  this  miserable,  nervous  weakness, 
and  walked  stoutly  on,  growing  paler  as  he  approached 
the  beloved  house.  It  was  a  delicious  evening.  The  air 
was  still  and  pure,  and  balmy  with  the  scent  of  flowers 
and  hay;  the  long  sunbeams  touched  the  woods  and 


350 

downs  with  tender  glory;  the  swallows  were  darting 
round  the  tower,  whose  gray  face  was  gilded  by  the  west- 
ern glow,  and  glancing  across  the  pure,  pale  sky,  their 
bodies  gleaming  with  gold,  like  the  doves  of  ^Scripture, 
"Whose  feathers  are  like  gold;"  down  in  the  thickets  the 
thrushes  and  blackbirds  were  pouring  out  their  evening 
lay;  and  a  pair  of  larks  were  maddening  each  other  with 
the  rival  raptures  of  their  song  overhead. 

He  passed  the  bit  of  green  on  which  Lennie  and  Dickie 
Stevens  were  righting  on  the  winter  afternoon  when  he 
left  it,  handcuffed  and  amazed.  He  opened  the  gate  and 
entered.  There  was  the  laburnum  planted  on  the  birth- 
day, a  great  tree  now;  down  there  they  used  to  play  at 
Robinson  Crusoe.  The  great  pear-tree  was  still  standing 
from  which  Cyril  fell  that  far-off  autumn  day;  he  could 
even  now  see  the  boy  lying  white  and  still  on  the  grass, 
hear  Lilian's  cry  of  terror,  and  recall  the  sick  pang  with 
which  he  thought  he  might  be  killed. 

He  reached  the  door,  and  a  mist  came  before  his  eyes, 
whirling  so  that  he  could  not  see  the  bell-handle  for  a 
few  seconds,  and  had  to  grope  for  it.  The  bell  echoed 
through  a  silent  house;  he  heard  footsteps  coming 
along  the  well-known  corridor  and  through  the  hall ;  the 
door  opened,  and  disclosed  the  blooming  face  of  a  parlor- 
maid, who  regarded  him  without  interest.  "Is  Miss  Mait- 
land  at  home?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice  from  which  every 
vestige  of  tone  had  vanished. 

"Yes  sir.     What  name,  if  you  please?" 

"Doctor  Everard,"  he  faltered  huskily,  and  a  terror 
came  over  him,  and  made  him  think  that  he  should  have 
to  turn  back,  unable  to  face  the  moment. 

The  maid,  however,  whisked  airly  on  to  the  drawing- 
room  door,  which  she  opened,  pronouncing  his  name  with 
metallic  clearness. 

In  the  well-known  room  all  seemed  dark  after  the 
bright  external  sunshine.  The  Venetians  were  closed 
against  the  western  glow,  and  the  deep  gloom  was  em- 
phasized here  and  there  by  a  long  rod  of  golden  Ijght 
falling  through  the  chinks.  He  stood  irresolute  just 
within  the  door.  A  figure  rose  from  the  far  end,  and  he 
heard,  in  Lilian's  pure  and  silvery  tones,  one  cry  of 
"Henry!''  as  she  moved  toward  3 rim. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLANt).  351 


For  a  space  he  seemed  both  blind  and  deaf,  and  then 
all  the  painful  agitation  fell  away  from  him,  the  sick 
yearning  of  the  long  years  was  stilled,  the  nervous  weak- 
ness gone.  He  was  healed  and  calmed,  himself  once 
more;  for  it  was  indeed  Lilian  who  stood  before  him — 
the  same,  same  Lilian,  with  the  sweetest  soul  that  ever 
looked  from  clear  eyes  gazing  up  into  his  own,  the  Lilian 
of  his  young  love,  the  Lilian  of  his  long,  pining  prison- 
dreams. 

Those  first  few  moments  were  too  tense  for  memory; 
neither  of  the  reunited  lovers  was  ever  able  to  recall  any- 
thing but  a  dream-like  sense  of  happiness  from  them ;  each 
spoke,  but  neither  remembered  what  was  said.  The  first 
moment  of  distinct  daylight  consciousness  was  when  they 
found  themselves  sitting  hand  in  hand  on  the  couch 
which  had  been  Mrs.  Maitland's  through  so  many  years 
of  weakness,  silent  and  happy  and  perfectly  calm. 

Everard  was  wholly  pervaded  by  a  sense  of  Lilian's 
pure  and  wholesome  presence ;  he  was  soothed  and  blessed 
by  it,  as  one  is  by  the  beauty  of  some  fresh  and  fair  sum- 
mer evening,  when  the  whole  earth  is  bathed  in  the  purity 
of  soft  and  cloudless  light,  and  the  stainless  air  is  stilled 
as  if  to  listen  to  the  voices  of  the  sea  and  the  forest  and 
the  bridal  songs  of  many  birds.  Such  had  always  been 
the  effect  of  her  presence.  It  had  ever  brought  him 
renewal  and  fresh  strength,  together  with  the  calm  of 
perfect  happiness;  but  now,  after  the  long  abstinence,  the 
eighteen  years'  fast,  the  effect  was  tenfold. 

They  sat  a  long  time  thus,  forgetful  of  everything  but 
the  divine  rapture  of  that  long-desired  moment,  forgetful 
of  all  the  wrong  and  misery,  the  sin  and  degradation  and 
loss  of  the  weary  years  that  had  parted  them,  forgetful  of 
every  creature  but  each  other;  and  then  Lilian  began  to 
speak  of  those  he  had  loved,  and  at  last  rose  from  the 
pleasant  shadows  and  went  to  the  bay  window. 

"It  is  dark,"  she  said,  in  the  beloved  remembered 
voice;  "we  will  have  light." 

And  in  a  moment  she  had  drawn  up  the  rattling  Vene- 
tian blind,  and  the  full  blaze  of  evening  sunshine  poured 
in  upon  her.  It  crowned  her  rich  hair  with  new  glory, 
it  fell  like  a  benediction  upon  her  calm  brow  and  finely 
curved  lips,  it  clothed  her  form  with  a  robe  of  radiance, 


352 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAIfLAND. 


as  she  stood  erect,  and  well-poised  in  the  perfection  of 
grace  that  is  only  possible  to  a  form  of  beautiful  propor- 
tions, her  head  slightly  thrown  back,  her  glance  raised  to 
the  glowing  sky,  and  one  arm,  from  which  the  lace  fell 
backward,  extended  in  the  act  of  drawing  the  cord. 
She  stood  in  the  magic  glow  transfigured,  exalted  by  the 
deep  emotion  of  the  moment,  and  wearing,  in  Everard's 
eyes,  a  brighter  glory  than  that  of  youth. 

There  had  ever  been  in  Lilian  an  enduring  charm  over 
which  years  could  have  no  power — a  something  so  supe- 
rior to  beauty  that  it  made  people  forget  to  ask  if  that 
divine  gift  were  hers,  and  which  also  made  it  impossible 
to  think  of  age  or  youth  in  connection  with  her.  Though 
it  was  well  known  that  the  dean  was  her  twin-brother,  no 
one  ever  dreamed  of  attributing  his  three-and-forty  years 
to  her;  nor  did  any  one  commit  the  mistake  of  treating 
her  as  a  girl.  She  did  not  grow  old  or  fade ;  she  simply 
developed  in  so  harmonious  a  manner  that  each  year  of 
her  life  seemed  the  year  of  culminating  prime. 

A  minute  and  microscopic  examination  of  her  features 
might  have  enabled  a  physiologist  to  assign  her  the  true 
tale  of  her  years ;  there  might  have  been  gray  hairs  among 
the  brown,  soft  waves,  but  no  one  sought  them,  and  no 
one  saw  them.  Health  and  exercise  had  preserved  the 
fair  proportions  of  her  form;  no  evil  thought  had 
stamped  its  impress  on  the  pure  outline  of  her  features ; 
no  fretting,  no  repressed  and  baffled  faculties  had  left 
their  wearing  marks  on  her  beautiful  face. 

Good  women  age  slowly,  as  great  painters  discovered 
when  painting  bereaved  Madonnas.  Women  whose  lives 
are  full  and  whose  faculties  are  fully  employed  also  age 
slowly.  Lilian's  life  had  by  no  means  been  sterile.  She 
had  had  her  mother,  whose  life  her  cares  had  prolonged, 
to  nurse;  her  young  brother  and  sister  to  bring  up;  her 
father  and  her  home  to  care  for;  the  whole  village,  and 
all  the  invalids  and  ne'er-do-wells  for  miles  round,  to 
cherish  and  advise  and  heal. 

With  an  intellect  less  showy,  but  stronger  and  steadier 
than  the  dean's,  she  had  given  him  all  that  was  best  and 
most  enduring  in  his  writings;  no  work  of  his  had  ever 
been  passed  through  the  press  without  the  benefit  of  her 
revision;  there  were  few  things  he  had  ever  done  without 


THIS  SILENCE  Of  DEAN  MA1TLAND.  353 

her  advice,  in  spite  of  the  estrangement  that  had  arisen 
between  them  since  the  date  of  their  common  sorrow. 
She  had  been  with  him  in  his  bereavements,  and  had 
tended  the  death-beds  of  his  children  and  his  wife;  and 
she  had  been  a  mother  to  Marion  and  the  blind  Everard. 
who  both  loved  her  next  to  their  father. 

And  deep  as  was  the  sorrow  which  had  made  her  youth 
a  loneliness,  and  blighted  Everard's  hopes  and  her  own  in 
this  long  and  terrible  punishment,  it  was  the  kind  of  sor- 
row that  purifies  and  elevates:  it  was  not  like  the  physi- 
cal suffering,  the  degradation,  and  the  wearing  sense  of 
wrong  which  Everard  endured ;  it  could  not  crush  her  en- 
ergies, blunt  her  faculties,  or  stifle  her  intellect.  She 
had  not  been  obliged  to  repress  the  love  so  cruelly 
blighted;  she  had  lived  for  Everard  all  those  years,  and 
had  been  able  to  keep  alive  hope,  and  even  some  kind  of 
joy,  in  his  breast.  The  sorrow  had  come  so  suddenly, 
and  fallen  so  irrevocably,  that  there  had  been  no  wearing 
agony  of  suspense,  no  struggle  of  hopes  and  fears;  the 
trouble  had  to  be  met  and  coped  with  once  for  all,  and 
through  the  dim  vista  of  those  long  years  there  had  always 
gleamed  the  hope  that  was  fulfilled  in  the  present  moment. 

Everard  gazed  in  rapt  admiration  on  the  glorified 
figure  in  the  sunshine,  and  upon  the  well-remembered 
adored  hand  that  was  so  like  a  spirit  in  its  pure  and  slen- 
der beauty,  and  did  not  dream  of  helping  her,  it  was  so 
long  since  he  had  known  the  courtesies  of  life.  She  had 
only  raised  the  centre  blind  of  the  bay;  she  now  turned 
to  the  side  blinds,  and  drew  them  up  with  the  same  light 
and  strong  sweep  of  her  well-molded  arm,  and  Everard 
now  observed  that  she  was  in  an  evening  dress  of  some 
light-hued  and  soft  fabric,  and  wore  a  bunch  of  fresh  roses 
at  her  neck :  she  was  in  festal  array  to  receive  him.  The 
golden  glory  changed  even  as  she  stood,  it  blushed  a  sud- 
den crimson,  and  died  away  into  purest  rose;  the  sun  set, 
and  only  the  faint  and  changing  after-glow  remained. 

Lilian  now  turned  and  saw  Everard  clearly  in  the  fading 
rose-light,  which  vanished  as  she  looked,  and  left  only  the 
hard,  uncompromising  light  of  a  June  evening  behind. 
She  saw  the  wistful  eyes  deep-sunken  in  the  wasted  face, 
the  gray  hair,  the  bowed  form,  and  the  worn  and  haggard 
features,  with  their  sublime  expression  of  heroic  suffering. 
and  a  sharp,  plaintive  cry  broke  from  her. 


354 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


"Henry!  my  poor,  poor  Henry!  What  have  they  done 
to  you?"  she  cried,  hastening  to  his  side. 

He  rose  to  meet  her,  and  clasped  the  beautiful  slim 
hands  in  his  own  gloved  ones,  and  looked  down  into  her 
tear-clouded  eyes.  "I  warned  you  what  a  wreck  you 
would  see/'  he  replied.  "Ah,  Lilian!  this  is  not  the  man 
you  loved." 

"Dearest,  you  must  be  happy  now ;  you  must  forget  all 
the  trouble  and  pain,"  continued  Lilian,  who  was  crying 
for  very  pity  over  him.  "Ah,  Henry!  if  love  could  heal 
you,  you  would  soon  be  healed." 

Henry  could  only  fold  her  silently  to  his  heart,  feeling 
that  he  was  indeed  healed  already. 

Soon  Mr.  Maitland  appeared,  his  silver  hair  now  snow- 
white,  and  his  voice  fainter  than  of  old.  He  was  much 
shocked  at  the  change  in  Henry  at  first  sight  of  him ;  but 
he  recovered  quickly,  and  welcomed  him  cordially  in  the 
exquisite  Maitland  manner.  His  first  full  conviction  of 
Everard's  guilt  had  gradually  disappeared,  whether  under 
the  influence  of  Lilian's  long  unswerving  faith,  or  of  the 
tone  of  Henry's  letters,  which  had  of  late  often  been 
quoted  to  him,  or  through  the  softening  which  old  age 
brings,  and  which  disposes  to  increasing  lenience  of  judg- 
ment, it  is  difficult  to  say.  He  now  asked  his  forgiveness 
for  his  former  want  of  faith  in  him. 

"Dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "I  yield  Lilian  willingly  to  you, 
hard  as  it  is  to  lose  her.  But  you  have  the  better  claim, 
and  you  have  waited  long;  my  poor  children,  you  have 
waited  too  long,"  he  added,  his  eyes  growing  dim  as  they 
fell  on  Everard's  gray  hairs. 

He  would  not  hear  of  Everard's  leaving  the  house  that 
night,  but  sent  at  once  for  his  portmanteau,  and  told  him 
that  his  room  had  been  waiting  for  him  for  days. 

"I  should  rather  say  your  rooms,"  he  explained,  "since 
Lilian  could  not  decide  whether  you  would  prefer  your 
own  old  room,  or  one  less  familiar,  and  thus  had  two 
arranged.  But  why  do  you  keep  your  gloves  on?  You 
were  wont  to  despise  gloves  in  the  old  days." 

"Can  you  not  guess?''  asked  Everard.  "Did  you  ever 
see  a  mason's  hands?"  . 

"Shall  it  be  the  old  room?"  asked  Lilian,  while  her 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAX  MAITLAND.  355 

father  turned  away,  more  moved  at  the  thought  of  the 
roughened  hands  than  he  had  thought  it  possible  to  be, 
and  remembering  Everard's  intellectual  gifts,  and  the  rich 
promise  of  his  early  manhood. 

Everard's  had  been  the  ideal  surgeon's  hand — strong, 
supple,  smooth,  and  with,  sensitive  finger-tips,  and  this 
skilful  and  scientific  instrument  had  been  blunted  and 
maimed  by  rough  mechanic  labor  through  all  the  best 
years  of  his  life,  while  many  a  sufferer  had  lacked  its 
healing  touch,  and  writhed  under  the  clumsier  strength 
of  less  delicate  fingers. 

"Alas,  Henry!"  he  exclaimed,  after  a  pause;  "I  trust  I 
may  never  know  the  man  who  let  you  suffer  in  his  stead. 
I  could  not  forgive  him." 

A  faint  shudder  passed  over  Lilian  at  these  words,  and 
she  directed  Henry's  attention  to  a  cushioned  chair  by  the 
hearth,  on  which  lay  a  round,  black  something,  which 
proved  on  inspection  to  be  Mark  Anthony,  the  cat,  sleep- 
ing the  sleep  of  the  just,  and  snoring  blissfully. 

.  "Dear  old  Mark!"  said  Henry,  stroking  the  velvet  fur; 
"what,  alive  still?" 

"He  has  retired  from  active  service,"  observed  Mr. 
Maitland,  "and  devotes  himself  to  a  life  of  contempla- 
tion— lazy  old  Mark!" 

"He  is  the  apple  of  our  eyes,"  laughed  Lilian,  lifting 
him  up,  and  letting  him  stretch  his  soft  limbs  and  yawn 
blissfully.  "I  love  the  creature  as  if  he  were  human;  he 
has  been  my  companion  and  comfort  so  long." 

Mr.  Maitland  observed  that,  like  many  other  gentle- 
men, Mark  had  taken  to  religion  in  his  later  years,  and 
was  now  a  regular  church-goer.  Every  Sunday  morning 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  trotting  after  his  master  to  the 
vestry,  where  he  had  a  cushion  in  a  sunny  window-sill, 
and  was  respectfully  treated  by  the  clerk  and  the  choris- 
ters. 

These  trivial  anecdotes,  which  served  to  fill  an  awk- 
ward silence,  presently  included  Cyril. 

"We  are  very  proud  of  'my  son  the  dean,'  Henry,  you 
must  know;  our  Chrysostom,  our  golden-mouth.  You 
must  hear  him  preach  some  day,"  Mr.  Maitland  said 
finally. 

"Poor  Cyril!"  sighed  Everard.     "I   stopped  at  Bel- 


356  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

minster  on  my  way  down,  and  heard  him  preach.  A 
very  fine  preacher  with  a  singular  gift.  I  do  not  wonder 
that  you  are  proud  of  him." 

"You  saw  Cyril?"  asked  Lilian,  with  a  startled  air. 

"He  does  not  often  preach,"  continued  Air.  Maitland. 
"The  fact  is,  his  nerves  cannot  stand  the  excitement;  he 
throws  himself  too  unrestrainedly  into  it,  and  it  makes 
him  ill." 

"He  was  ill  that  night.  Yes,  I  saw  that  he  was  com- 
pletely carried  away.  He  is  inspired;  he  is  obliged  to 
speak  as  he  is  moved.  He  said  what  he  never  dreamed 
of  saying  before  he  began.'' 

"Our  dear  Chrysostom!"  murmured  the  proud  father. 
"Yes,  Henry,  the  fire  descends  upon  him;  he  has  the 
true  gift.  Have  you  heard  that  he  is  to  be  Bishop  of 
Warham?" 

"Poor  Cyril!"  said  Henry  and  Lilian  simultaneously; 
and  neither  asked  the  other  why  he  was  to  be  pitied. 

But  Lilian  seemed  anxious  to  avoid  the  topic,  and,  say- 
ing that  the  supper-hour  was  already  past  led  the  way 
into  the  dining-room,  with  the  great  cat. 

"Puss  gives  me  such  a  sense  of  home  as  I  cannot  ex- 
press," said  Henry,  fondly  stroking  his  unresponsive  form. 

"We  think  his  purr  acquires  mellowness  with  years,'' 
laughed  Lilian.  "Henry,  do  you  still  like  chicken  and 
oysters  and  cherry-tarts?  Because  I  have  dreamed  for 
years  of  giving  them  to  you  on  such  an  occasion  as  this." 

"And  this  pale  port?"  added  Mr.  Maitland,  pointing 
to  a  cobwebbed  bottle  lying  on  a  rack.  "You  and  Cyril 
laid  it  down  for  me.  It  was  drunk  at  his  ordination,  his 
wedding,  his  eldest  son's  christening,  and  his  installation 
as  dean.  This  was  kept  for  your  return,  and  there  is  still 
a  bottle  for  the  bishop's  enthronement." 

"They  did  not  give  us  very  old  port  or  young  chicken 
at  Dart — ''  Henry  began,  and  stopped,  seeing  Lilian 
glance  at  the  waiting-maid.  He  flushed,  but  was  too 
serenely  happy  for  any  morbid  regrets,  and  listened  hap- 
pily to  his  host's  apology  for  the  absence  of  dinner,  which 
was  now  only  a  mid-day  repast,  owing  to  the  declining 
health  of  his  old  age. 

Lilian's  remembrance  of  his  old  liking  touched  him  as 
only  such  little  things  can  touch,  and  the  meal  with  the 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  357 

old  ,port  had  almost  a  sacramental  character  for  him. 
The  sparkle  of  the  silver  and  glass,  the  ordinary  graces 
of  a  gentleman's  table,  to  which  he  had  so  long  been  a 
stranger,  were  beyond  measure  delightful  to  him,  and  he 
saw  by  many  little  indications  that  the  fresh  flowers  and 
the  fruit  and  the  very  service  had  received  the  graceful 
touch  of  Lilian's  own  hands  to  welcome  him. 

His  last  free  meal  had  been  at  that  board  and  in  that 
beloved  presence.  Since  then,  save  for  the  few  solitary 
repasts  he  had  taken  in  hotels,  he  had  broken  the  bread 
of  captivity  moistened  with  tears,  and  had  learned  almost 
to  forget  the  simple  courtesies  of  life.  It  was  a  pleasure 
to  drink  from  bright  engraved  glass,  to  handle  silver  and 
fresh  linen,  to  hear  the  kindly  voice  of  his  host,  to 
observe  the  quiet,  gliding  motions  of  the  well-trained 
maid,  to  see  the  soft  glow  of  the  lamp;  much  more  to  feel 
the  beloved  presence,  to  meet  the  glance  of  Lilian's  clear 
eyes,  and  hear  the  pure  tones  of  her  voice.  It  was  like 
heaven,  he  said,  when  they  parted  for  the  night. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  Everard,  like  one  in  a 
blissful  dream,  went  to  the  church  so  full  of  youthful  as- 
sociations, and  saw  many  of  the  faces  familiar  to  his 
youth,  yet  unfamiliar  now  because  of  the  metamorphoses 
of  time,  and  missed  many,  swept  away  for  the  most  part, 
into  the  silence  which  awaits  us  all,  and  thought  of  the 
winter  Sunday  eighteen  years  ago,  when  Cyril  preached 
his  strange,  passionate  sermon  on  innocence.  He 
thought,  too,  of  the  sermon  in  the  cathedral,  and  the 
terrible  anguish  on  the  guilty  man's  face,  the  canker  that 
had  been  eating  into  his  heart  through  all  those  years. 
He  was  glad  to  think  that  Marion  was  at  rest. 

Upon  the  wall,  opposite  the  Rectory  pew,  he  saw  a 
marble  tablet,  on  which  he  read  the  following  sorrowful 
inscription : 


358  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

SACKED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 
MARION, 

BELOVED    WIFE   OF 

THE  VERY  REVEREND  CYRIL  MAITLANl),  D.   D.t 

DEAN    OF    BELMIN8TER, 

WHO  DIED    AUGUST   20,    1875, 

AGED   32  YEAR8, 

AND  OF 

THK  BELOVED  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABOVE: 

ERNEST.  AGED  6  YEARS; 

ARTHUR  AND  LILIAN,  AGED  3  YEARS; 

CYRIL  EVERARD,  AGED  9,  BERTHA,  AGED  3, 

AND  WILLIAM  KEPPEL,  AGED  4,  WHO  ALL  THREE  DIED  tN 

ONK  WEEK  OF  THE  SAME  MALADY; 
AND  EDWARD  AUGUSTUS,  AGED  1  YEAR. 


*  D  spare  me  a  little,  that  1  may  recover  uiy  strength  before  I  go  bence.  and  oe  nu 
more  seen." 

A  vision  of  the  little  band  of  children  floated  with  pa- 
thetic grace  before  Everard's  eyes  and  he  thought  what 
pangs  must  have  rent  their  parents'  hearts  when  the  earth 
closed  over  each  bright  little  face;  nor  did  he  greatly 
wonder  that  Marion's  fragile  existence  had  been  crushed 
by  such  sorrow.  The  boy  who  had  given  him  the  bon- 
bons -and  played  at  convicts,  headed  the  mournful  list,  a 
pretty,  sturdy  little  fellow,  whose  name  and  features  he 
remembered  well.  His  heart  bled  for  Cyril,  and  yet  he 
thought  and  wondered,  did  Lilian  think,  too,  as  she  sat 
by  his  side,  of  another  little  group  of  child-faces — of  other 
Cyrils  and  Lilians  and  Ernests,  of  the  very  same  blood  as 
those  dead  babes,  who  might  have  clustered  around  their 
hearth  but  for  that  stricken  father's  sin?  He  thought 
also  of  yet  another  child,  outcast  and  disowned,  who 
might  be  wandering  now  in  lonely  manhood  somewhere 
on  the  earth's  wide  bosom. 

-  Lilian  had  told  him  of  the  sad  manner  in  which  Cyril's 
twins  were  lost.  They  were  at  play  on  the  steps  of  a 
bathing-machine,  drawn  up  by  a  rope  on  a  sloping 
shore,  when  the  line  parted,  and  the  machine  ran  down 
into  the  sea,  Cyril  running  after  it  with  all  hi*  speed, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


359 


and  suffering  the  cruel  anguish  of  seeing  the  children 
spring  toward  him  only  to  fall  into  the  sea,  where  the 
rollers  at  once  swept  them  away  from  his  sight  forever. 
His  wild  effort  to  save  them  had  thus  caused  their  death. 

Marion  felt  it  less  than  Cyril,  who  was  an  unusually 
affectionate  father,  Lilian  said.  Indeed,  Marion  had  been 
strangely  apathetic  of  late  years.  Her  marriage  was  not 
a  happy  one.  She  could  not  understand  her  husband, 
she  confessed  to  Lilian  in  her  last  hours;  he  was  kind, 
and  even  tender,  toward  her,  but  she  was  afraid  of  Him, 
and  grew  more  afraid  as  years  went  on.  There  was  some- 
thing— she  knew  not  what — between  them,  and  Cyril's 
strange  and  terrible  melancholy  was  enough  to  depress  a 
stronger  nature  than  hers. 

"I  have  sometimes  thought,"  commented  Lilian,  "that 
Marion's  continual  bereavements  and  fragile  health  may 
have  unhinged  her  mind;  there  was  certainly  something 
morbid  in  the  way  in  which  she  thought  of  Cyril.''  There 
was  a  wistful  appeal  in  Lilian's  voice  as  she  said  this,  and 
an  expression  in  the  eyes  which  she  lifted  to  Everard's 
that  made  him  shiver  inwardly. 

"I  think,"  he  replied,  gently,  "that  their  characters  were 
unsuited  to  each  other.  Cyril  needed  a  wife  of  stronger 
intellect,  and  Marion  a  man  of  less  complex  character, 
whom  she  could  have  understood  and  appreciated.  You 
know,  I  always  said  that  her  health  would  give  way  under 
unhappiness:  she  needed  the  gentlest  cherishing.  And 
she  is  at  rest  now,  Lilian,  and  it  is  well  with  her,"  he  add- 
ed, with  a  faint  tremble  in  his  voice.  "I  urged  the  mar- 
riage because  I  knew  that  the  disappointment  would  kill 
her." 

They  were  sitting  in  the  bay  of  the  drawing  room  win- 
dow during  this  conversation,  the  bells  were  dropping 
their  slow  chime,  laden  with  memories,  into  Everard's 
heart  and  ears,  and  people  were  walking  churchward  in 
little  groups  through  the  lane  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
Then  the  drawing  room  door  opened  suddenly,  and,  with 
a  rustle  of  silk  and  a  glow  of  fine  raiment,  a  most  beauti- 
ful young  lady  entered  unannounced,  and  embraced  Ev- 
erard  in  a  rapturous  manner,  calling  him  her  dear  Henry, 


360  THE   SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

and  saying  how  delighted  she  was  to  see  him  again,  and 
how  she  should  have  known  him  anywhere. 

"This  is  very  agreeable,"  he  replied,  recovering  him- 
self, "but  rather  embarrassing." 

"But  don't  you  know  me,  Henry?"  she  cried. 

"Have  you  forgotten  Winnie?"  asked  Lilian. 

"And  here  is  my  husband.  Surely  you  remember 
him?"  said  Winnie,  turning  to  Sir  Ingram  Swaynestone, 
who  had  followed  her  in,  with  a  fair-haired  child  in  his 
hand,  and  who  was  a  much  more  portly  and  imposing 
personage  than  he  had  been  eighteen  years  ago. 

Ingram  thought  that  the  homicide,  by  whomsoever 
committed,  had  at  least  been  unintentional.  He  could 
not  refuse  this  meeting  without  paining  the  sisters,  which 
he  was  too  good-natured  to  do.  He,  therefore,  tried  to 
make  the  best  of  it. 

"I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  there  was  some  mistake 
in  that  business  of  poor  Lee's,"  he  said,  after  greeting 
Henry,  "though  it  is  hard  to  doubt  the  evidence  of  one's 
senses.  I  hope,  Doctor  Everard,  we  shall  be  able  to  for- 
get the  parts  we  had  to  play  then." 

"I  hope  so,"  replied  Everard,  feeling  that  Swaynestone 
could  not  meet  him  without  some  such  concession,  but 
seeing  very  plainly  that  he  did  not  doubt  the  evidence  of 
his  senses. 

"This  is  our  daughter  Lilian,"  Sir  Ingram  added,  thus 
ending  a  rather  embarrassing  pause,  bidding  the  child  go 
and  shake  hands,  which  she  stoutly  refused  to  do. 

"Naughty  little  thing!  Her  father  spoils  her  shame- 
fully," said  Winnie;  "simply  for  the  sake  of  her  name, 
I  believe.  But  little  girls  who  won't  shake  hands  with 
gentlemen  will  never  be  like  Aunt  Lilian,"  she  added, 
severely. 

'\nd  where  is  Lionel?"  asked  Lilian,  taking  the  child 
on  her  knee.     "Is  he  not  going  to  church?" 

"Master  Lionel  was  not  in  a  devout  frame  of  mind 
this  morning,"  replied  his  father.  "When  requested  to 
indue  his  go-to-meeting  clothes,  he  threw  himself  on  the 
ground  and  roared  with  the  vigor  of  ten  boys,  so,  of 
course,  he  had  his  way.  Can  you  imagine  who  spoils 
Lion,  Aunt  Lilian?" 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  361 

"Poor  darling!"  said  Lady  Swaynestone ;  "I  am  sure 
he  is  not  well.  His  nervous  system  is  so  quickly  upset." 

"Me  don't  like  him  hands,"  observed  little  Lilian  at 
this  juncture,  pointing  to  Henry's  hands;  but,  with  the 
waywardness  of  her  age,  she  was  struck  at  the  same  mo- 
ment by  the  expression  of  his  face,  and  climbed  on  his 
knee  with  the  utmost  confidence. 

"By  the  way,  we  had  a  letter  from  the  Very  Reverend 
yesterday,"  said  Winnie.  "He  wrote  very  hurriedly  in 
answer  to  a  business  letter  of  Ingram's,  but  he  said  that 
Lennie's  ship  is  coming  home  with  the  squadron ;  also  that 
the  rumor  of  his  engagement  to  that  girl  at  Malta  is  well 
founded,  so  we  suppose  there  will  be  a  Mrs.  Lennie  be- 
fore long." 

"Father  and  I  have  long  been  prepared  to  receive  the 
girl  at  Malta,"  Lilian  said;  and  she  opened  an  album,  and 
showed  Everard  the  photograph  of  a  fine  young  naval 
officer  whom  he  recognized  as  his  old  playfellow  Lennie. 

They  were  setting  off  for  the  church,  when  a  lady, 
dressed  in  a  conventual  garb,  entered  the  gate  and  came 
to  meet  them. 

"I  am  quite  disappointed,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  that 
brought  back  old  times  to  Everard;  "I  wanted  to  be  the 
first  to  meet  Doctor  Everard,  and  welcome  him.  I  see 
that  you  have  forgotten  Ethel  Swaynestone,  Doctor  Ev- 
erard." 

"I  was  not  prepared  for  the  dress,"  replied  Everard, 
wondering  at  the  bright  flush  which  overspread  her  thin, 
delicate  face;  for  he  did  not  dream  that  the  romance  of 
her  life  owned  him  as  her  central  figure. 

"Doctor  Everard  has  not  yet  seen  the  hospital,  Ethel," 
said  Lilian;  and  then  it  was  explained  to  him  that  Lilian 
had  caused  two  cottages  to  be  built,  one  for  convalescents 
and  one  for  sick  poor  people,  and  had  placed  them  under 
the  charge  of  Miss  Swaynestone's  sisterhood,  a  sister  from 
which  always  lived  there,  and,  with  help  from  Lilian 
nursed  the  parish  sick  in  their  own  homes  or  at  the  cot- 
tages. 

"The  question  is,  what  does  Lilian  not  do?"  comment- 
ed Sir  Ingram.  "She  scolds  all  the  drunkards  and 
scamps;  she  arranges  all  the  matrimonial  squabbles — 


362 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


Winnie  and  I  dare  not  for  the  life  of  us  have  a  comforta- 
ble wrangle  together;  she  exhorts  the  naughty  children; 
she  makes  up  the  quarrels  of  sweethearts;  she  makes  peo- 
ple's wills  for  them;  she  keeps  an  asylum  for  aged  and 
useless  beasts  of  every  description;  she  engages  servants 
that  nobody  else  can  put  up  with,  and  turns  them  out 
marvels  of  perfection;  she  entertains  dipsomaniacs  and 
other  bad  characters  at  the  Rectory,  and  sends  them  back 
candidates  for  canonization;  she  tames  unruly  animals 
for  miles  around,  and  heals  sick  ones;  nobody  ever 
dreams  of  getting  married  or  born,  or  buying  a  field,  or 
going  to  service,  without  first  asking  her  advice; — in 
short,  she  is  the  most  fearful  busybody  at  large.  And,  to 
crown  all,  she  insists  on  marrying  a  ticket-of-leave  man/' 
he  added,  within  himself. 

It  was  delicious  to  Everard  to  go  through  the  old  Sun- 
day routine  again,  and  think  that  this  simple,  quiet, 
wholesome  life  had  been  going  on  through  all  those 
weary  prison  years.  There  was  Mr.  Marvyn,  the  curate, 
who  had  instructed  his  youth,  preaching  the  old  familiar 
sermons,  with  their  scraps  of  learning  and  difficult  the- 
ological and  ethical  problems,  which  flew  so  far  over  the 
heads  of  the  slumbering  congregation ;  there  was  the  har- 
monium, a  little  touched  with  asthma,  and  played,  as  of 
yore,  by  Mrs.  Wax,  who,  with  her  husband,  had  survived 
all  the  changes,  and  gallantly  faced  all  the  requirements 
of  new  education  codes;  there  were  the  whole  clan  of 
Hales  and  Straun,  and  the  discontented  tailor,  whose  dis- 
content was  now  silvered  by  the  dignity  of  hoar  hairs  and 
William  Grove,  and  his  mate  Jem. 

Job  Stubbs,  the  chorister,  whose  levity  had  been  pub- 
licly rebuked  by  his  pastor,  now  sat  among  the  basses, 
and  thundered  out  deep  chest  notes  from  beneath  his 
white  surplice,  himself  the  parent  of  light-hearted  boys 
and  girls;  Dicky  Stevens,  also  a  husband  and  father,  sat 
near  him,  as  of  old,  but  led  the  tenors  instead  of  the 
trebles,  and  sent  his  naughty  boys  to  be  tamed  by  the 
hand  which  had  redeemed  his  own  youth  from  the 
tyranny  of  the  stick.  In  the  afternoon,  Mr.  Maitland 
preached  in  the  sweet,  paternal,  simple  strain  that  had  so 
impressed  Everard's  youth,  with  the  beautiful  Maitland 
voice  and  manner,  and  the  pure  diction  he  nad  loved. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  363 

It  was  easy  to  see  whence  the  dean's  great  powers  were 
derived;  it  was  impossible  not  to  think  that  talents  as 
great,  nay,  perhaps  in  some  respects  greater,  than  his 
were  buried  in  this  humble  little  village.  His  son's  sud- 
den flights  of  inspiration  were  indeed  wanting  in  tke  vil- 
lage priest's  quiet  eloquence,  but  his  sermons  had  some- 
thing that  was  lacking  in  the  dean's — namely,  the  steady 
glow  of  a  fervid  and  unaffected  piety,  which  only  aimed 
at  making  his  hearers  better  men  and  women,  and  thought 
not  of  ambition  and  self.  Nunc  Dimittis  was  the  good 
old  gentleman's  theme,  and  it  filled  Everard's  heart  with 
a  beautiful  peace.  He  did  not  know  how  appropriate  it 
was  to  the  occasion,  since  he  did  not  dream  that  these 
were  the  last  words  the  gentle  priest  was  to  say  to  his 
flock;  nor  did  he  dream  that  the  sermon  which  he  knew 
Cyril  was  then  preaching  before  so  different  an  audience 
in  Belminster  Cathedral  was  to  be  the  last  of  the  bril- 
liant and  soul-searching  orations  which  had  won  him  so 
lustrous  a  name. 

"My  children,"  said  Mr.  Maitland,  in  conclusion,  "I 
beseech  you  to  keep  innocency;  for  that,  and  that  alone, 
shall  bring  a  man  peace  at  the  last."  Strange  echo  of  his 
son's  first  sermon  in  that  church! 

It  had  been  whispered  about  that  the  broken,  wistful- 
eyed  man  sitting  in  the  Rectory  pew  was  no  other  than 
the  too-notorious  Dr.  Everard,  whose  trial  and  sentence 
were  still  so  fresh  in  the  village  memory.  Searching 
glances  were  directed  upon  him  during  afternoon  sermon 
and  many  eyes  recognized  the  features  of  the  handsome 
and  hopeful  young  doctor  under  his  wan  and  changed 
aspect,  so  that  when  Everard  came  forth  into  the  after- 
noon sunshine,  he  was  surprised  to  see  a  little  lane  formed 
about  the  churchyard  path,  and  to  find  himself  accosted 
by  name.  There  had  from  the  first  been  a  faction  in  the 
village  convinced  of  Everard's  innocence.  It  was  the 
head  of  this  faction  who  now  spoke. 

"Glad  to  see  you  back,  sir,"  blurted  out  Straun,  with 
a  perspiring  effort,  as  he  took  off  his  hat  and  held  out  his 
great  hand.  "We  knowed  you  never  done  it." 

"Ay,  we  knowed  you  never  done  it,"  chimed  in  Wil- 
lia*  Grove  and  some  others,  advancing  also  with  out- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

stretched  hand.  "Granfer,  he  knowed  you  never  done 
it;  and  this  here  is  Granfer's  tombstone,"  added  the  shep- 
herd who  had  seen  Everard  on  his  road  to  Widow  Dove's 
on  the  fatal  afternoon,  bringing  his  hard  hand  down  on 
the  stone,  as  if  its  existence  were  a  solid  proof  of  Gran- 
fer's valuable  opinion  on  the  subject. 

"And  Widow  Dove,"  said  Tom  Hale,  the  old  soldier, 
"as  her  daughter  married  my  wife's  brother,  as  set  up  in 
the  hardware  line  at  Oldport,  it  lay  on  her  conscience 
when  she  come  to  die.  as  she  never  said  nothing  about 
her  fire  being  out  that  afternoon,  and  no  candle,  and  the 
door  shut,  when  you  came  up  and  thought  the  house 
empty.  Many's  the  time  she've  spoke  of  that  to  my  wife 
on  her  dying  bed,  as  helped  nurse  her,  and  had  it  wrote  in 
the  family  Bible." 

"And  my  little  gal,  she  minds  now  how  you  give  her 
the  penny  that  night,"  added  William  Grove,  pushing  for- 
ward a  bashful,  buxom  young  woman,  with  a  child  in  her 
arms,  who  courtesied  and  blushed.  "Growed  up  she  is, 
and  made  a  granfer  of  me,  zure  enough,"  he  farther  added. 

Everard  could  scarcely  speak;  he  could  only  grasp  each 
proffered  hand  and  murmur  some  vague  words  of  thanks, 
but  his  heart  was  deeply  stirred  as  he  passed  along  the 
lane  of  kindly,  hearty  faces,  and  went  out  into  the  road, 
where  he  found  Farmer  Long  and  his  family,  who  were 
waiting  to  welcome  him  and  express  their  sorrow  at  the 
unmerited  calamity  which  had  befallen  him. 

This  little  outburst  on  the  part  of  the  stolid,  undemon- 
strative rustics  was  so  unexpected,  and  so  strong  a  proof 
of  the  feeling  with  which  his  innocence  was  regarded  by 
some  of  his  old  friends,  though  not,  as  he  well  knew,  by 
all,  that  it  almost  overpowered  him,  and  he  was  glad  to 
take  refuge  within  the  Rectory  gate.  On  turning  to  shut 
it,  he  saw  his  friends  still  standing  in  the  afternoon  sun- 
light, with  their  hats  off  till  he  should  have  vanished  from 
their  sight,  and  he  again  removed  his  own. 

He  sat  with  Mr.  Maitland  and  Lilian  under  the  thick- 
leaved  lime-tree,  silent  and  happy,  watching  the  shadows 
turn  soft  and  slant,  and  the  swallows  dart  across  the  sun- 
ny blue,  while  the  father  and  daughter  told  him  many 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  365 

things  that  had  come  to  pass  in  his  absence,  and  tea  was 
brought  out;  and  finally,  Mr.  Maitland  sank  into  the 
peaceful  slumber  which  usually  followed  his  Sundey  la- 
bors. Then  Lilian  took  the  cat  in  her  arms,  and  walked 
toward  the  field  to  visit  her  invalid  animals. 

"Why  do  you  carry  that  great  creature?"  asked  Ever- 
ard. "Let  me  take  him  for  you." 

"As  if  Mark  would  suffer  any  one  else  to  carry  him!" 
laughed  Lilian,  as  the  cat,  with  an  indignant  look  at 
Everard,  clasped  his  fore  paws  round  her  neck  and 
rubbed  his  head  against  her  cheek.  "You  cannot  imag- 
ine how  I  love  the  thing,  Henry;  he  is  a  link  with  the 
past.  Do  you  remember  the  day  we  found  him,  a  stray, 
half-starved  kitten,  up  by  Temple  Copse?  It  was  the 
Christmas  vacation,  and  you  and  I  and  Cyril  were  talk- 
ing about  his  chance  of  taking  honors.  How  happy  we 
were!" 

"It  was  a  frosty  day,"  continued  Everard,  musingly, 
"and  the  kitten  was  numb  with  cold  till  you  warmed  it 
in  your  furs.  Its  bones  were  staring  through  its  skin." 

"And  it  has  loved  me  ever  since — me  and  Cyril  only. 
Mark  never  forgets  Cyril,  but  runs  to  him  still,"  said  Lil- 
ian, stroking  the  warm,  soft  fur.  "Only  once  did  Mark 
make  a  mistake — on  that  fatal  evening  when  he  ran  after 
the  gray  figure  in  the  dusk,  else  he  never  ran  after  any 
human  being  but  myself  and  Cyril.  Was  it  not  strange, 
Henry?"  she  added,  finding  that  he  made  no  comment. 

"The  whole  occurrence  was  strange,  dearest,  and  bet- 
ter forgotten,"  he  replied,  evasively. 

"Do  you  think  it  was  an  optical  delusion?"  she  per- 
sisted, after  some  trivial  and  irrelevant  remarks  on  the 
part  of  Everard,  who  wished  to  change  the  subject 

"No  doubt  it  was;  perhaps  a  light  was  reflected  from 
some  quarter  by  the  opening  of  a  door.  Who  knows? 
One  is  often  deceived  in  the  twilight,  when  everything 
is  more  or  less  ghostly.  That  old  beech  still  stands.  It 
will  be  down  some  stormy  night." 

"Cats  are  not  deceived  by  the  twilight,"  continued  Lil- 
ian, with  a  tremor  in  her  voice;  "they  see  better  in  the 
dusk.  Oh,  Henry,"  she  added,  with  a  stifled  cry,  "there 
was  but  one  the  cat  ever  followed!" 


366  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

She  was  trembling,  and  for  the  moment  Everard 
paused  with  a  blanched  cheek,  unable  to  say  anything. 

"You  have  brooded  too  long  over  this,"  he  said  at  last, 
with  a  lame  effort  at  lightness,  "and  your  imagination 
creates  bugbears  from  it.  The  cat  probably  saw  or  smelt 
a  mouse,  and  ran  after  that.  Or  he  may  have  been 
merely  frisking  about,  as  cats  do,  in  the  dusk.  Think  no 
more  of  it,  Lilian.  Let  us  bury  that  troubled  past  for- 
ever." 

"It  is  not  possible,  Henry,"  she  replied,  still  trembling. 
"Things  that  are  branded  into  one  can  never  be  forgot- 
ten. Dear  Henry,  tell  me  one  thing.  Do  you  know  who 
did  that  dreadful  thing  for  which  you  suffered?" 

"How  should  I  know?"  he  returned,  in  a  hard  voice 
that  he  could  not  control.  "I  do  not  think  it  will  be 
known,  Lilian,  till  the  day  when  all  things  are  revealed. 
There  is  an  impenetrable  mystery  about  it.  Let  it  re- 
main. Why  lift  the  veil?" 

Lilian  gazed  earnestly  upon  his  troubled  and  averted 
face,  and  then  said,  in  low,  thrilling  tones,  "Henry,  you 
know  who  killed  Benjamin  Lee,  and  you  know  that  the 
man  who  did  it  wore  your  clothes  and  passed  up  the  stair- 
case in  the  dusk  that  night." 

Everard's  heart  stood  still,  and  his  temples  throbbed. 
"Dear,"  he  replied,  "I  do  know  who  killed  that  poor  man, 
but  I  do  not  wish  to  reveal  it.  I  have  known  it  for  eigh- 
teen years,  and  have  seen  no  cause  for  revealing  it.  Such" 
knowledge  would  benefit  no  human  being;  it  would  inflict 
terrible  suffering  on  some.  Do  not  tempt  me  to  break 
my  silence,  Lilian;  it  is  a  point  of  honor." 

Lilian  had  dropped  the  cat  on  the  grass,  and  was  lean- 
ing against  the  light  iron  fence  of  the  paddock.  She  now 
turned,  and  clasping  Everard's  arm  with  convulsive  force, 
looked  imploringly  in  his  face. 

"Tell  me,"  she  cried,  "tell  me  that  it  is  not  so — that 
I  am  mistaken;  that  it  was  a  bad  dream — an  evil  fancy! 
Say,  oh,  Henry,  if  you  love  me,  say  it  was  not  he!" 

She  was  sobbing  now,  and  quivering  all  over  in  un- 
speakable agitation — she  who  was  so  calm  and  self-con- 
trolled usually.  Henry  drew  her  to  him,  and  strove  by 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  367 

caresses  and  words  of  love  to  soothe  her,  but  was  himself 
far  too  much  agitated  to  be  able  to  deceive  her. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "I  cannot,  cannot  bear  it!  My  Cyril! 
my  own  brother !  my  poor,  poor  Cyril !  I  understand  it  all 
now." 

"You  know,  dearest,"  said  Everard  at  last,  with  grave 
compassionate  tenderness,  "that  nothing  can  happen  with- 
out the  will  of  God." 

Lilian's  sobs  became  quieter  at  these  words,  and  after  a 
time  they  ceased,,  and  she  lifted  her  head  and  looked 
back  at  the  lime-tree,  beneath  the  shade  of  which  they 
could  see  the  white  head  of  her  sleeping  father. 

"There  is  one,"  said  Henry,  pointing  to  him,  "who 
must  never  suspect." 

"He  never  shall,"  replied  Lilian,  striving  to  regain  her 
habitual  self-command.  "But  oh,  my  poor,  poor  boy! 
Such  awful  hypocrisy.  I  would  not  suspect  for  a  long 
time;  it  seemed  like  a  temptation  of  the  evil  one.  Not 
until  Marion's  death.  I  think  she  was  afraid  to  let  her- 
self think.  But  she  told  me  so  much  when  she  was 
dying.  And  Cyril — ah,  Henry,  he  was  always  weak!  But 
a  traitor!  oh,  it  seems  incredible!  Ah,  what  a  dark  and 
terrible  mystery  our  nature  is!  And  he  let  you  suffer, 
you  who  loved  him  so!  Oh,  my  Henry!" 

"You  know,  Lilian,"  repeated  Everard,  in  unutterable 
love  and  pity,  "it  was  permitted  by  the  Divine  Will." 
And  the  words  again  had  a  quietening  effect  upon  Lilian^ 
who  had  now  regained  her  serene  charm  of  face  and  man- 
ner, inwardly  torn  as  she  was. 

"And  you  saw  him?"  she  asked.  "How  could  he 
meet  you?  What  could  he  say?  Oh,  how  can  he  have 
lived  this  lie,  and  borne  this  awful  burden  all  these 
years?" 

"His  burden  was  heavier  than  mine,"  Everard  said; 
and  then  he  desribed  their  meeting  in  the  cathedral. 
Cyril's  passionate  sermon,  his  terrible  agitation  on  recog- 
nizing him  among  the  crowded  congregation,  and  his 
own  letter  of  forgiveness  to  the  unhappy  man. 

But  they  each  wondered  that  he  had  not  yet  answered 
the  letter. 

"Doubtless  there  will  be  an  answer  to-morrow,"  said 
Everard. 


368  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

It  was  said  that  the  pope,  on  being  asked  once  if  he 
knew  anything  of  the  Church  of  England,  replied  that  he 
thought  he  remembered  having  heard  something  about 
an  eloquent  dean  in  that  communion,  named  Maitland. 
Others  told  the  story  differently,  and  averred  that  it  was 
Bishop  Oliver  who  had  conferred  such  luster  on  the 
national  Church. 

The  Bishop  himself,  on  being  asked  whom  he  consid- 
ered the  first  preacher  in  the  Church,  had  replied  that 
Dean  Maitland  was  undoubtedly  the  second,  his  interrog- 
ator divining,  from  a  shrewd  twinkle  in  the  episcopal  eye, 
that  there  would  be  a  lack  of  delicacy  in  pressing  him  to 
name  the  first.  The  same  querist,  on  putting  a  similar 
question  to  the  dean,  had  been  met  by  a  genial  smile,  and 
the  candid  but  laughing  avowal  that  he  had  never  heard 
any  one  compared  to  himself,  unless  it  was  the  bishopj  for 
the  dean's  ingenuous,  almost  child-like,  candor  was  not 
one  of  the  least  of  his  social  charms. 

The  two  ecclesiastics  were  rivals  not  only  in  the  pulpit, 
but  in  the  world.  Both  were  favorites  at  Court  and  in 
general  society;  but  the  bishop  lacked  the  personal 
beauty  and  grace  of  the  dean,  and,  though  a  good  talker 
and  clever  raconteur,  and  possessed  of  a  fund  of  genuine 
humor,  he  had  not  the  dean's  bright,  swift  wit  nor  his 
light  and  playful  touch  in  conversation:  his  mirth,  like 
his  intellect,  was  elephantine  in  comparison  with  the 
pard-like  gracefulness  of  the  dean's.  Nor  did  the  bishop 
possess  that  rare  and  magnetic  power  of  attracting  and 
subjugating  people's  hearts  peculiar  to  Cyril  Maitland, 
and  given  to  a  few  choice  spirits  destined  to  rule  men. 

His  features  were  square,  massive,  and  expressive  of 
solid  intellect,  unvisited  by  the  lightning  flashes  of  emo- 
tion and  thought  which  gave  new  beauty  to  the  dean's 
beautiful  face.  Bishop  Oliver  was  past  middle  age,  and 
looked  as  if  he  had  never  been  young,  while  the  dean 
looked  as  if  he  could  never  be  old.  He  was  a  good  man, 
though  human.  In  all  the  farthest  recesses  of  his  mem- 
ory there  was  nothing  he  feared  to  look  at;  there  was  no 
spiritual  tragedy  in  his  life;  he  was  unacquainted  with 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  369 

the  depths  of  human  agony.  Thus  his  sermons,  though 
possessing  a  more  level  and  sustained  excellence  than  the 
dean's,  though  showing  greater  intellect  and  learning, 
had  inninitely  less  power  to  touch  men's  hearts;  nor  was 
he  ever  carried  away  beyond  the  limits  of  his  will,  and 
thus  enabled  to  carry  others  away,  as  the  dean  was. 
People  did  not  fly  to  him  for  spiritual  help,  as  they  did 
to  the  dean,  for  he  did  not  possess  his  absolute  sympathy 
with  the  sinful;  their  lives  and  experiences  differed  so 
widely  from  his  own  spotless  career,  that  he  could  not 
but  regard  th'em  as  aliens,  strive  as  he  would  to  call  them 
brothers. 

But  there  was  something  in  Dean  Maitland's  way  of 
regarding  sin  and  sinners  which  opened  the  darkest  re- 
cesses of  people's  hearts  to  him,  and  men  had  not  feared 
to  pour  into  his  sympathizing  ear  things  which  it  froze 
the  blood  to  hear.  Very  tender  was  the  healing  hand  he 
laid  upon  sick  souls — tender  but  firm.  No  one  knew  bet- 
ter than  he  the  remedies  which  alone  can  heal  such  deadly 
maladies,  although,  like  many  physicians  of  the' body,  he 
had  not  the  strength  of  will  to  apply  his  prescriptions  to 
his  own  case.  Of  this  he  was  sometimes  conscious,  as 
was  seen  in  his  last  sermon  to  candidates  for  ordination, 
when  he  had  taken  for  text,  "Lest  I  myself,  when  I  have 
preached  to  others,  should  become  a  cast-away." 

Never  for  a  moment  let  it  be  thought  that  sin  is  in  any 
way  necessary  or  good  or  helpful,  anything  but  vile  and 
injurious  in  itself  or  in  its  far-reaching  consequences;  yet 
it  is  an  undoubted  fact  that  in  some  natures  a  heavy  fall 
leads  to  a  higher  spiritual  development.  Good  is  stronger 
than  evil,  and  the  eternal  purpose  which  rules  in  all 
things,  and  against  which  nothing  human  can  prevail, 
often  appears  to  bring  the  brightest  light  from  the  thick- 
est darkness.  Thus  this  man's  black  iniquity  was  made 
an  instrument  of  healing  to  others. 

The  bishop's  detractors  accused  him  of  worldliness  and 
ambition,  and  said  that  he  misapplied  St.  Paul's  injunc- 
tion, to  be  all  things  to  all  men,  and  was  too  goocl  a 
courtier  to  be  a  good  Christian. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  bishop,  being  human  as 
well  as  Christian,  did  greatly  love  the  esteem  of  men,  and 
particularly  of  princes,  and  in  his  heart  of  hearts  felt  it 


370  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

hard  that  he  and  the  dean  should  have  their  lines  cast  in 
the  same  place,  expressly,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  that  the 
luster  of  his  own  renown  might  be  dimmed  by  the  greater 
brilliance  of  his  rival's.  They  were,  however,  the  best  of 
friends — for  even  the  bishop  was  subjugated  by  the  irre- 
sistible charm  of  his  rival's  manner  whenever  he  came 
into  personal  contact  with,  him — and  had  been  heard  to 
observe,  after  one  of  these  slight  differences  of  opinion 
that  must  sometimes  arise  between  the  bishop  and  the 
dean  that  it  was  pleasanter  to  be  at  war  with  Dean  Mait- 
land  than  at  peace  with  the  majority  of  mankind.  Yet  it 
was  said  of  Bishop  Oliver  that  he  managed  never  to  be  at 
war  with  mortal  man,  Jew  or  papist,  churchman  or  dis- 
senter, atheist  or  fanatic. 

The  dean's  preferment  to  the  see  of  Warham  was  at 
once  a  rose  and  a  thorn  to  the  bishop,  a  rose,  because  it 
would  remove  his  rival  to  such  a  distance  that  he  would 
no  longer  daily  overshadow  him :  a  thorn,  because  the  see 
of  Warham  was  of  greater  dignity  and  emolument  than 
that  of  Belminster.  Thus  he  regarded  it  with  mixed 
feelings,  and  had  been  heard  to  say  that  from  the  Deanery 
of  Belminster  to  the  episcopal  throne  of  Warham,  was  a 
singularly  sudden  leap. 

Not  that  Bishop  Oliver  for  a  moment  accused  himself 
of  so  mean  a  thing  as  jealousy;  he  imagined  himself  to 
be  actuated  solely  by  deep  solicitude  for  the  weal  of 
Church  and  State,  which  he  sincerely  thought  himself 
better  calculated  to  serve  than  the  dean.  But  when,  on 
the  Sunday  following  the  dean's  illness  in  the  pulpit,  the 
bishop  was  sitting  tranquilly  at  luncheon,  he  was  greatly 
discomposed  by  an  observation  from  one  of  his  young 
people,  to  the  effect  that  the  premier  was  coming  down 
to  Belminster  that  very  afternoon  for  the  express  purpose, 
it  was  said,  though  this  was  not  the  case,  since  the  minis- 
ter chanced  to  be  passing  a  Sunday  at  Dewhurst  Castle, 
of  hearing  the  bishop-designate  preach. 

"Nonsense,  my  dear  Mabel!"  he  said.  "Ministers 
have  something  better  to  do  than  to  be  running  about 
after  popular  preachers,  particularly  while  Parliament  is 
in  session." 

A  young  clergyman  present  passed  his  napkin  before 
his  face  to  conceal  an  irrepressible  smile,  and  remem- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAX  MA2TLAND.  371 

bered  how  differently  the  bishop  had  spoken  of  people 
who  came  to  hear  him  preach. 

"Well,  my  dear  father,  I  can  only  regret  the  levity  of 
Mr.  Chadwell's  disposition,"  returned  Mabel;  "for  he 
certainly  telegraphed  last  night  to  know  if  the  dean  was 
to  preach  this  afternoon." 

"I  thought,"  returned  the  bishop,  "that  his  recovery 
was  singularly  rapid.  He  was  very  ill  on  Friday.  It  is  a 
great  pity  that  he  should  excite  himself  so  much ;  he  will 
kill  himself  one  of  these  days.  And  that  kind  of  sermon 
does  no  permanent  good." 

"By  the  way,  sir,"  said  a  son,  "there  is  a  queer  story 
about  the  dean.  Some  woman  who  died  at  the  hospital 
last  week  accused  him  of  all  manner  of  goings-on  with 
her  last  breath,  I  hear." 

"Tittle-tattle,  Herbert;  nothing  more.  Local  celebri- 
ties are  always  the  centres  of  scandalous  report." 

"The  fierce  light  that  beats  upon  a  deanery,"  laughed 
the  young  fellow.  "Well,  these  were  strange  doings  for 
a  dean,  I  must  say." 

The  bishop  adroitly  started  a  fresh  topic,  but  he  could 
not  help  reflecting  in  his  heart  of  hearts  that  the  doings 
attributed  to  the  dean  by  the  half-uttered,  half  sup- 
pressed rumors  he  knew  to  be  flying  about,  were  indeed 
remarkably  strange.  For  Alma's  dying  statement  had 
not  been  made  in  private;  the  dean's  delay  and  her  own 
extremity  had  rendered  her  desperate,  and  her  one  desire 
was  that  the  injustice  done  Everard  should  be  known. 
He  could  not  help  reflecting,  moreover,  that  there  was 
probably  some  foundation  for  the  rumors,  however  slight, 
and  he  felt  that  he  should  not  be  struck  dumb  with  sur- 
prise if  he  learned  that  the  brilliant  and  handsome 
ecclesiastic  had  sown  a  few  wild  oats  in  his  hot  youth, 
and  bitterly  repented  the  harvest  such  sowing  always 
entails.  He  had  often  wondered  at  the  power  and  pas- 
sion with  which  he  depicted  feelings  of  remorse;  yet  he 
was  destined  to  be  greatly  surprised  that  afternoon. 

The  cathedral  was  crowded.*  People  sat  on  the  choir 
steps  and  filled  the  nave  to  the  furthest  limits  of  hearing; 
chairs  were  placed  north  and  south  of  the  choir;  the 
choir  itself  was  as  full  as  its  stately  decorum  permitted. 
The  well-known  face  of  the  premier  was  seen  among  the 


372  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

worshippers.  This  gentleman  intended  calling  at  the 
Deanery  after  the  service,  and  had  sent  an  intimation  to 
that  effect. 

The  dean  smiled  rather  grimly  when  he  heard  who  was 
to  be  his  guest  that  afternoon,  and  speedily  quieted  the 
agitation  into  which  Miss  Mackenzie  was  always  thrown 
at  the  prospect  of  visits  from  people  of  distinction.  "You 
need  not  get  out  the  best  china/'  he  said,  with  his  old 
playful  way  of  alluding  to  stock  jests;  "I  promise  you 
that  the  minister  will  not  come." 

He  was  going  to  the  cathedral,  manuscript  in  hand,  as 
he  spoke.  He  turned  back  again,  and  met  Miss  Macken- 
zie descending  the  stairs,  dressed  ready  for  the  cathedral, 
and  she  observed  that  he  was  paler  than  ever,  and  grave 
as  he  had  been  since  his  seizure  on  the  Friday  night. 

"Dear  Miss  Mackenzie,''  he  said,  in  his  sweetest  way, 
"I  have  a  little  favor  to  ask  you." 

He  paused,  and  Miss  Mackenzie  began,  "Oh,  Mr. 
Dean,  anything  I  can  do — "  for  she,  like  everybody  else, 
felt  that  the  dean  conferred  a  favor  in  asking  one. 

"You  have  been  a  good  friend,"  he  continued,  "and  I 
owe  much  of  the  peace  and  comfort  of  my  home  to  you." 

"And  what  do  I  not  owe  to  you?"  she  replied,  with 
enthusiasm.  "How  happy  I  have  been  here!" 

"I  hope,  indeed,  that  you  have  been  happy  under  my 
roof,"  he  went  on.  "I  should  be  grieved  if  it  were  other- 
wise, for  I  am  not  all  bad.  I  only  want  you,  Miss  Mack- 
enzie, to  do  me  the  slight  favor  of  staying  at  home  this 
afternoon." 

Then  he  turned  and  went,  leaving  the  gentlewoman 
rooted  to  the  ground  with  surprise  until  he  reached  the 
door,  when  he  again  turned  and  wished  her  good-by  in  a 
voice  that  she  never  forgot.  Reflecting  on  this  little  in- 
cident afterward,  she  regarded  it  as  a  strong  proof  of  the 
solid  friendship  which  existed  between  them,  and  enjoyed 
many  a  comfortable  cry  over  it  in  subsequent  years. 

The  organ  was  rolling  great  waves  of  sorrowful  music 
about  the  vaulted  roof  of  the  cathedral,  Dr.  Rydal,  the 
organist,  being  plunged  in  one  of  those  fits  of  profound 
melancholy  to  which  the  artistic  temperament  is  liable. 
Such  a  gloom  had  not  brooded  over  him  for  years,  and  all 
his  efforts  to  shako  it  off  and  modulate  his  mournful 


THS    SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MA1TLAND.  373 

cadencies  into  more  joyous  harmonies  were  vain;  so  at 
last  he  gave  rein  to  it,  and  passed  out  of  one  minor  key 
into  another,  until  he  glided  finally  into  the  passionate 
pleading  of  Mendelssohn's  "O  Lord,  have  mercy  and  blot 
out  my  transgression/'  from  the  St.  Paul,  and  the  choir 
paced  in  with  even  step,  a  long  procession  of  white  robes, 
closed  by  the  dean's  scarlet  hood  and  the  bishop's  lawn. 

People  noticed  the  dean's  worn  face  and  his  look  of 
utter  weariness,  particularly  when  he  stood  up  to  read  the 
First  Lesson,  which  chanced  to  contain  the  pathetic  story 
of  the  death  of  Absalom,  and  never,  they  thought,  was 
the  pathos  of  that  divine  narrative,  the  stumbling-block 
and  the  despair  of  most  readers,  more  truly  and  beau- 
tifully rendered.  His  magnificent  voice  never  for  a 
moment  escaped  his  control,  but  pealed  steadily  on,  giv- 
ing due  weight  and  meaning  to  every  syllable,  and  throw- 
ing the  full  measure  of  the  stricken  and  penitent  father's 
anguish  into  the  heart-rending  words,  "Oh,  my  son 
Absalom,  my  son,  my  son  Absalom!  would  God  I  had 
died  for  thee,  oh,  Absalom,  my  son,  my  son!"  words  so  ' 
nobly  simple  in  their  unutterable  sorrow. 

Many  eyes  were  wet  when  the  dean  ended  his  reading, 
and  most  of  those  who  were  listening  remembered  of  how 
many  Absaloms  he  had  been  bereaved;  but  they  did  not 
dream  how  close  the  parallel  was  between  him  and  the 
crowrted  mourner  of  Israel,  who  knew  that  his  own  sin 
had  wrought  him  these  terrible  woes. 

He  had  not  observed  the  immense  concourse  of  people, 
his  eyes  had  been  bent  on  the  ground,  his  soul  had  been 
too  conscious  of  awful  presences,  too  occupied  by  eternal 
realities,  to  be  disturbed  by  anything  human  when  he 
entered  the  holy  building.  But  when  he  finished  reading 
and  was  turning  from  the  lectern,  the  force  of  old  habit 
was  so  strong  upon  him  that  he  lifted  his  head,  and  with 
one  lightning  glance  swept  all  the  crowded  spaces  of  the 
vast  building,  and  encountered  the  multitudinous  gaze  of 
the  great  sea  of  faces. 

He  saw  the  premier,  the  familiar  figures  of  the  dwellers 
in  the  close,  and  the  people  from  the  city  and  its  environs, 
the  fashion  of  Belminster  and  its  commerce,  working 
people  and  idlers,  the  known  and  the  unknown,  the  choir 
and  the  clergy,  the  bishop  and  the  quaintly  clad  alms- 


374 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MA1TLAND. 


men;  and,  quite  near  him,  Lady  Louisa,  with  Lord 
Arthur  and  the  duke  and  duchess,  who  had  driven 
through  the  hot  sun  all  the  way  from  the  Castle  with 
their  distinguished  guest  for  the  express  purpose  of  hear- 
ing the  famed  eloquence  of  the  bishop-elect. 

He  thought  that  all  the  multitude  must  soon  know  his 
shame,  they  who  honored  him  and  hung  waiting  upon  his 
words,  and  the  thousand  eyes  bent  upon  him,  more  or  less 
full  of  the  deep  thoughts  stirred  by  the  divine  narrative 
he  had  just  read  so  perfectly,  seemed  like  so  many  points 
of  flame  darting  into  the  most  secret  recesses  of  his  soul; 
he  turned  sick,  and  longed  for  the  pavement  beneath  his 
feet  to  yawn  and  swallow  him.  What  mortal  could  bear 
that  crushing  weight  of  scorn?  he  wondered.  The  mere 
anticipation  of  it  stopped  his  breath  and  made  his  heart 
shudder  with  a  piercing  pain;  it  must  certainly  kill  him. 

He  turned  to  his  stall,  against  the  dark  carved  work 
of  which  his  face  showed  like  some  beautiful  Greek  mar- 
ble, quite  as  white  and  still,  and  the  organ  pealed,  and 
'the  voices  of  the  full  choir  blended  in  magnificent  billows 
of  song,  and  the  words  of  the  "Magnificat"'  fell  upon  his 
unheeded  ear,  till  a  bass  voice  separated  itself  from  the 
others,  and  thundered  out,  "He  hath  put  down  the 
mighty  from  their  seat,"  in  tones  which  seemed  to  con- 
vey a  special  menace  to  his  troubled  soul. 

The  great  congregation  seemed  to  melt  away,  and 
before  his  eyes  arose  the  face  that  had  never  left  him 
since  the  moment  when  he  first  saw  it,  two  nights  ago — 
the  worn  and  wasted  face  of  his  betrayed  friend,  with  its 
loyal  gaze  of  heroic  sadness  "looking  ancient  kindness" 
upon  his  self  accusing  misery.  Never,  he  thought,  while 
he  lived,  would  the  look  of  that  face  cease  to  haunt  him 
— never,  perhaps,  even  through  all  the  endless  ages  of 
eternity.  And  not  that  face  alone;  others  less  kindly 
arose  to  haunt  his  tortured  soul  with  their  glances. 

Alma  Lee,  in  all  the  luster  of  her  fresh,  unsullied 
beauty,  as  he  had  seen  her  in  her  father's  house  on  the 
night  when  he  rescued  her  from  the  wagoner's  rudeness; 
Alma,  with  the  startled  self-betrayal  in  her  guileless, 
passionate  glance;  Alma,  a  little  child,  sporting  with 
him  over  the  meadow,  wreathed  with  chains  of  flowers 
or  crowned  with  berry  crowns;  and  Alma,  ruined,  with  a 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  375 

new  and  sinister  splendor  in  her  beauty,  as  she  stood 
and  swore  away  the  honor  of  his  friend.  The  child  eyes 
hurt  him  most;  "Give  me  back  my  innocence/'  they 
said,  in  their  dumb,  sweet  appeal. 

Then  Ben  Lee  rose,  with  the  fierce  passion  in  his  livid 
face,  and  the  dreadful  stain  upon  it:  "Give  me  back"  my 
life,  and  the  honor  of  my  child!"  cried  his  angry,  accus- 
ing glance.  He  saw  the  estranged,  terrified  look  in 
Clarion's  dying  eyes.  His  dead  babes  came  with  strange 
reproach  in  their  appealing  glances,  and  asked  why  they 
were  only  born  to  fade;  and  Lilian  looked  upon  him  with 
her  sweet  and  loving  gaze,  and  asked  dumbly  for  the 
lover  of  her  youth,  and  the  children  who  were  never 
born.  "And  Lilian  must  know  all,"  he  thought,  with 
agony.  But  the  look  in  the  eyes  of  the  betrayed  was 
present  through  all,  and  that  look  was  like  an  anchor  to 
stay  his  shuddering  soul  upon. 

The  voices  of  the  choir  rose  upon  the  mighty  pinions 
of  the  anthem,  and  eased  his  heart  somewhat  of  its  sore 
burden.  "Hide  thy  face  from  his  sins,  and  blot  out  all 
my  misdeeds,"  they  sang  in  strains  that  seemed  to 
issue  from  the  depths  of  broken  hearts.  The  sweet  and 
sorrowful  music  sank  into  his  soul  with  healing  balm:  a 
pure-toned  soprano  repeated  the  phrase  in  soul-subduing 
melody,  and  a  solemn  peace  fell  upon  him  in  spite  of  all 
those  visionary  glances  turned  so  accusingly  toward  him. 

And  now  it  was  time  for  him  to  ascend  the  pulpit,  and 
he  rose  from  his  stall  with  his  accustomed  air  of  quiet 
reverence,  and  walked  up  the  choir.  As  he  went,  his  eye 
fell  upon  that  symbol  of  solemn  humbug — for  he  did  not 
believe  in  it;  he  had  worn  it  and  abstained  from  wine  only 
for  the  sake  of  influence — the  scrap  of  blue  ribbon  which 
was  attached  to  his  surplice,  and  he  took  it  off  and  cast  it 
on  the  pavement  beneath  his  feet.  He  had  done  with 
all  fripperies  and  unrealities  now;  his  soul  stood  at  last, 
stripped  of  all  pretense,  in  the  awful  presence  of  his 
Maker. 

Save  that  his  face  was  very  pale,  and  there  were  purple 
shadows  about  his  mouth,  there  was  nothing  unusual  in 
his  manner  as  he  ascended  the  steps  to  the  pulpit  amid 
the  rolling  harmonies  of  the  hymn,  in  which  the  vast  con- 
gregation joined,  and  looked  round  upon  the  familiar 


376  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

spectacle  of  the  multitude  of  faces.  There  he  stood,  one 
sinful  man  in  the  presence  of  many  sinful  men,  erring 
and  weak  and  weary,  and  all  unworthy  of  the  garb  he 
wore,  yet  the  ambassador  of  high  heaven,  and  charged 
with  a  divine  message — a  solitary  figure  on  an  awful  emi- 
nence. 

It  was  a  beautiful,  an  inspiring,  and  to  him  a  familiar 
scene,  which  offered  itself  to  his  gaze.  Immediately 
beneath  and  around  him,  shut  in  by  the  dark,  rich  cavity 
of  the  choir,  were  the  white  robes  of  the  choristers,  inter- 
spersed with  the  bright  silk  hoods  of  the  clergy,  and  the 
gay  and  rich  summer  dresses  of  ladies,  just  relieved  by  a 
sprinkling  of  black  coats.  All  down  the  nave  spread  a 
dark,  dimly  seen  mass  of  human  beings,  varied  by  the 
glow  of  a  soldier's  coat  or  the  brightness  of  a  woman's 
dress  catching  the  broad  afternoon  light,  which,  stream- 
ing through  the  great  west  window,  and  falling  in  broken 
rays  of  many-colored  glory  here  and  there,  or,  entering 
through  the  clear  aisle  windows,  shed  a  diffused  whiteness 
over  all. 

On  either  side  of  the  choir,  aisle  and  transept  presented 
the  same  aspect  of  massed  humanity;  some  long,  dusty 
rods  of  golden  light  fell  athwart  the  shadowy  choir,  and 
turned  a  black  oak  crocket  or  fretted  pinnacle  to  gold; 
and  from  all 'that  vast  mass  of  standing  worshippers  rose 
the  mighty  surge  of  a  penitential  hymn,  and  rolled  in 
solemn,  far-spreading  billows  around  the  sinful  man  who 
stood  a  witness  between  earth  and  heaven  upon  the  soli- 
tary height. 

But  the  dean's  steadfast,  forward  gaze  saw  nothing  of 
the  spectacle  before  him,  a  spectacle  so  wont  to  inspirit 
him  to  his  loftiest  flights;  he  was  not  even  conscious  of 
those  haunting,  accusing  glances  from  the  past:  was 
conscious,  for  those  few  brief  moments  in  which  he  strove 
to  nerve  himself  to  an  effort  beyond  his  strength,  of 
nothing  but  the  presence  of  the  Maker  against  whom  he 
had  sinned,  and  saw  only  the  sorrowful  glance  which  has 
gazed  from  the  Cross  all  down  the  ages  upon  the  deeds  of 
sinful  men.  His  soul  stood,  stripped  and  shuddering 
with  the  shame  of  its  uncovered  sin,  in  the  searching 
light  of  the  awful  glance  from  which  the  first  sinner 
vainly  tried  to  hide. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  377 

The  vast  surge  of  the  hymn  subsided,  the  plaintive 
murmurs  of  the  organ  died  away  lingering  among  the 
echoing  aisles,  the  worshippers  rustled  to  their  seats,  and 
every  eye  was  turned  expectantly  upon  the  preacher,  who 
quailed  slightly  before  the  innumerable  gaze,  and,  com- 
ing to  himself,  thought  with  agony  of  the  thing  that 
must  soon  lie  bare  and  open  before  them.  His  lips 
blanched  in  the  strenuous  anguish  of  his  internal  conflict, 
and  the  power  of  speech  deserted  him  for  a  second  or  two. 
His  manuscript  lay  open  and  ready  on  the  desk;  he 
looked  upon  and  read  the  neatly  written  text.  Then  he 
took  from  his  pocket  a  piece  of  folded  paper,  which  he 
held  in  his  left  hand,  as  if  it  were  some  talisman,  and 
found  strength  to  begin. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

As  he  opened  his  lips,  a  vision  of  the  little  church  at 
Malbourne  rushed  swiftly  before  his  mental  gaze.  He 
saw  the  familiar  faces  clustered  about  the  heavy  gray 
pillars,  and  the  reverend  figure  of  his  father  in  the 
ancient  pulpit,  and  all  the  holy  counsels  uttered  in  that 
father's  beloved  voice  came  upon  him  in  one  moment; 
but  he  did  not  know  that  this  his  father's  last  sermon  was 
the  echo  of  his  own  first. 

He  gave  out  his  text,  "I  will  confess  my  wickedness, 
and  be  sorry  for  my  sin,''  and  began  quietly  reading  from 
the  manuscript  before  him  in  a  clear  and  harmonious  but 
strikingly  level  tone,  which,  though  audible  all  over  the 
building,  did  not  correct  the  general  tendency  to  drowsi- 
ness on  that  hot  and  drowsy  afternoon. 

The  premier  and  those  who  heard  him  for  the  first 
time  were  disappointed,  the  premier  deciding  within 
himself  that  he  would  not  confer  much  lustre  upon  the 
oratory  of  the  Upper  House,  and  would  never  endanger 
Bishop  Oliver's  position  as  the  best  speaker  on  the 
Bench. 

It  was  a  sermon  such  as  dozens  of  clergymen  turn  out 
every  day.  The  preacher  exhorted  his  hearers  to  repent 


378  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

and  confess  their  sins.  He  reminded  them  that  repen- 
tance is  the  first  and  last  duty  which  the  Church  enjoins 
on  her  children.  He  alluded  to  the  different  practices  of 
the  Church  in  different  ages  with  regard  to  it,  and  its 
exaggeration  in  the  Roman  Communion  and  in  old 
American  Puritan  days.  He  observed  that  some  sins  ex- 
acted public  confession.  At  this  point  he  became  a  little 
paler,  and  his  voice  rose  on  its  accustomed  sonorous 
swell.  He  said  that  it  was  a  right,  and  wholesome  feeling 
which  prostrated  a  crowned  king  before  the  tomb  of  the 
murdered  archbishop  at  Canterbury,  kept  an  emperor 
barefoot  in  the  snow  at  Canossa,  and  humiliated  Theodo- 
sius  before  the  closed  gates  of  Milan  Cathedral.  "Do 
you  know,  my  brothers,"  he  continued,  with  a  thrill  of 
intense  feeling  in  his  voice,  "why  I  speak  to-day  of  the 
duty  of  public  confession  of  public  sin?  I  have  a  pur- 
pose." 

He  paused.  For  some  moments  there  reigned  that 
dead  silence  which  is  so  awfully  impressive  in  a  vast  as- 
sembly of  living  and  breathing  human  beings.  He  paused 
so  long  that  people  grew  uncomfortable,  thinking  he  must 
be  ill,  and  the  buzzing  of  a  perplexed  bumble-bee,  which 
had  somehow  strayed  into  the  choir,  and  was  tumbling 
aimlessly  against  people's  heads,  sounded  loud  and  pro- 
fane, and  the  man  who  could  not  repress  a  sneeze,  and 
the  lady  who  let  her  prayer-book  fall  felt  each  guilty  of 
an  unpardonable  crime.  Meantime,  the  dean  gazed 
quietly  before  him,  and  no  one  saw  the  chill  drops  of 
agony  which  beaded  his  brow,  or  suspected  the  anguish 
which  literally  rent  his  heart. 

The  bishop  with  difficulty  suppressed  a  grunt  of  disap- 
proval. "He  pauses  for  effect,"  he  thought;  "now  for 
the  fireworks!  Divine  rage  consumes  the  dean!  Out 
with  the  handkerchiefs!  If  people  must  rant,  why  on 
earth  can't  they  rant  in  barns?" 

"My'  brothers,"  continued  the  dean,  at  .last  breaking 
the  thrilling  silence,  and  speaking  in  a  low  but  perfectly 
clear  and  audible  voice,  "it  is  because  I  myself  am  the 
most  grievous  of  sinners,  and  have  sinned  publicly  in  the 
face  of  this  great  congregation,  the  meanest  among 
whom  I  am  unworthy  to  address,  because  I  wish  to  con- 
fess my  wickedness,  and  tell  you  that  I  am  sorry  for  my 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.         ,      379 

sin.  I  have  no  right  to  be  standing  in  this  place  to-day; 
to  be  the  parish  priest,  as  it  were,  of  this  noble  building; 
to  fill  an  office  hallowed  by  the  service  of  a  long  line  of 
saintly  men.  My  life  has  been  one  black  lie.  The  three 
darkest  blots  upon  the  soul  of  man — impurity,  bloodshed, 
treachery — have  stained  my  soul." 

At  these  words  there  was  a  faint  rustle  of  surprise 
through  all  the  congregation.  The  bishop  frowned; 
"He  drives  his  theatrical  exaggeration  too  far,"  he 
thought.  The  duke  and  Lord  Arthur  recovered  from  the 
gentle  slumber  the  sermon's  beginning  had  induced. 
Every  eye  was  fixed  in  wonder,  interest,  or  incredulity 
upon  the  marble  features  of  the  preacher — that  is,  every 
eye  within  the  choir;  while  to  those  outside  it,  who  heard 
the  voice  from  an  invisible  source,  the  effect  was  doubled. 

"My  life/'  he  continued,  "has  been  outwardly  success- 
ful in  no  small  degree.  I  have,  in  spite  of  my  sin,  been 
permitted  to  minister  to  sick  souls;  for  the  Almighty  is 
pleased  sometimes  to  use  the  vilest  instruments  for  noble 
ends.  I  have  sat  at  good  men's  feasts,  an  honored  guest; 
yes,  and  at  the  tables  of  the  great,  the  very  greatest  in 
the  land.  I  have  risen  to  a  position  of  eminence  in  the 
ministry  of  our  national  Church — that  Church  whose 
meanest  office  better  men  than  I  are  unworthy  to  fill.  I 
have  been  offered  still  greater  honors,  the  office  of  bishop 
and  the  dignity  of  a  spiritual  peerage,  as  you  all  know; 
nor  was  it  till  now  my  intention  to  decline  this  promo- 
tion. I  have  been  much  before  the  public  in  other  ways, 
which  it  were  unbecoming  to  mention  in  this  holy  place. 
Such  dignities  as  have  been  mine,  my  brothers — for  I 
may  still,  in  spite  of  my  sins,  call  you  brothers,  since  I 
am  still  God's  child,  and  only  desire  to  return  to  Him  by 
the  way  of  penitence — such  dignities  are  based  upon  the 
assumption  not  only  of  moral  rectitude,  but  of  decided 
piety,  and  neither  of  these  has  ever  been  mine.  My  be- 
loved brothers,  hear  me,  and  take  warning,  and  oh!  pity 
me,  for  .1  am  the  most  miserable  of  men.  Like  those 
against  whom  Christ  pronounced  such  bitter  woes,  I  have 
desired  to  wear  long  robes,  to  receive  greetings  in  the 
market-place,  to  occupy  the  chief  seats  in  synagogues; 
these  things  have  been  the  very  breath  of  my  nostrils,  and 
f0*-  thes*  I  have  sinned  heavily,  heavily.  The  favor  of 


380  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

men  has  been  dear  to  me,  therefore  I  offer  myself  to  their 
scorn.  To  no  man,  I  think,  has  man's  favor  been  dearer 
than  to  me.  Ah,  my  brothers,  there  is  no  more  bitter 
poison  to  the  soul  than  the  sweetness  I  loved  with  such 
idolatry !  Well  does  our  Saviour  warn  us  against  it !'' 

He  spoke  all  this  with  quiet  anguish,  straight  from  his 
heart,  his  manuscript  being  closed;  while  at  this  point 
tears  came  and  dimmed  the  blue  luster  of  his  large  deep 
eyes,  and  coursed  quietly  and  unheeded  down  his  cheeks. 

The  congregation  still  listened  with  wide-eyed  wonder, 
not  knowing  how  to  take  these  extraordinary  utterances, 
and  half  suspecting  that  they  were  the  victims  of  some 
stage  effect.  But  the  premier's  face  wore  a  startled  gaze, 
and  he  looked  round  uneasily.  The  idea  suddenly  en- 
tered his  head,  that  his  recent  elevation  and  the  strenu- 
ously toilsome  life  he  led  had  been  too  much  for  the  dean, 
and  driven  him  mad.  Nor  was  he  alone  in  his  belief, 
which  was  shared  by  the  dean's  doctor  among  others. 

The  bishop  was  terribly  moved,  and  half  doubtful 
whether  it  would  not  be  well  to  persuade  the  preacher  to 
leave  the  pulpit  as  quietly  as  possible;  he  too  thought  the 
dean  mad,  and  trembled  lest  the  gossip  his  own  son  had 
repeated  might  have  driven  his  sensitive  organization  o:f 
its  balance.  Tears  sprang  to  his  eyes,  and  he  loathed 
himself  for  the  petty  feelings  he  had  suffered  to  enter  his 
heart  that  very  day. 

"What  I  confess  now,  in  the  presence  of  God,  and  of 
this  congregation,  against  whom  I  have  sinned,"  con- 
tinued the  preacher,  "I  shall  confess  shortly  before  the 
civil  tribunals  of  this  land,  the  laws  of  which  I  have 
broken.  Nineteen  years  ago,  \vhen  in  deacon's  orders,  I 
led  an  innocent  young  woman  astray."  Here  his  voice 
broke  with  a  heavy  sob.  "I  was  the  tempter — I,  who 
fell  because  I  deemed  myself  above  temptation.  My 
brothers,  since  then  I  have  not  had  one  happy  hour. 
Mark  that,  you  who  perchance  stand  on  the  verge  erf 
transgression.  But  that  is  not  all.  With  a  heart  sti'il 
stained  with  that  iniquity,  which  I  vainly  tried  to  expiate 
by  bodily  penance,  I  took  upon  me,  in  this  very  cathedral, 
the  awful  responsibilities  of  the  priesthood,  and  fell 
into  new  temptation. 

"The  father  of  this  poor  girl  discovered  my  iniquity, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  M  AIT  LAND.  381 

and,  justly  angered,  fell  upon  me  with  violence.  In  the 
struggle,  I  know  not  how,  I  killed  him.  Yes.  my 
brothers,  look  upon  me  with  the  honest  scorn  you  must 
feel  when  you  hear  that  these  hands,  which  have  broken 
the  bread  of  life  and  sprinkled  the  waters  of  healing,  are 
red  with  the  blood  of  the  man  I  wronged.  But  even  that 
is  not  the  full  measure  of  my  iniquity.  I  had  a  friend; 
)'.  loved  him — I  loved  him,  I  tell  you,"  he  echoed,  passion- 
ately, "more  than  any  mortal  man.  He  was  a  man  of 
noble  character  and  spotless  life;  he  had  gifts  which 
gave  promise  of  a  glorious  and  beneficient  career.  Sus- 
picion fell  upon  him  through  my  fault,  but  not  my 
deliberate  fault.  He  was  tried  for  my  crime,  found 
guilty,  and  sentenced  to  twenty  years'  penal  servitude." 

Here  the  preacher  trembled  exceedingly,  and  was 
obliged  to  pause,  while  people  looked  from  one  to  another 
'.vith  horror-stricken  eyes  and  blanched  faces,  and  the  very 
air  seemed  to  palpitate  with  their  agitation.  "Two  days 
ago,"  continued  the  unhappy  man,  "he  came,  fresh  from 
the  prison,  to  worship  in  this  holy  place.  I  was  preach- 
mg — I,  the  traitor,  the  hypocrite;  I  who  had  lived  in 
palaces  while  the  friend  of  my  youth  pined  in  the 
prison  I  had  deserved — I  saw  him;  I  recognized  him 
through  all  the  terrible  changes  that  awful  misery  had 
wrought  upon  him.  I  could  not  bear  the  sight,  and  fled 
from  it  like  another  Cain.  But  I  did  not  even  then 
repent." 

"My  brothers,  this  man  wrote  to  me  and  forgave  me, 
and  that  broke  my  stony  heart.  The  Almighty  had 
called  me  by  heavy  sorrows  through  many  years  to  repen- 
tance, but  I  repented  not  until  I  was  forgiven.  The  All- 
Merciful  did  not  leave  me  alone  in  my  wickedness.  I 
saw  the  wife  of  my  youth  pine  away  before  my  eyes,  and 
my  children  fade  one  by  one  till  my  home  became  a  deso- 
lation, and  yet  I  sinned  on,  deadening  my  conscience  by 
continual  opiates  of  subtlest  sophistry.  It  is  not  for  me 
to  detail  these;  to  say  how  I  persuaded  myself  that  my 
gifts  were  needed  in  the  ministry  of  the  Church;  that  I 
was  bound  to  sacrifice  all,  even  conscience,  to  the  sacred 
calling,  and  such  like.  Blind  was  I,  blind  with  pride  and 
seif-love.  Nay,  I  refused  even  to  look  my  sin  in  the  face. 
I  stifled  memory;  I  never  realized  what  I  had  done  until 


382  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

the  awiul  moment  of  revelation,  when  I  stood  eye  to  eye 
with  the  friend  I  betrayed.  My  dear  brothers,  have  you 
iver  thought  what  years  of  penal  servitude  must  mean  to 
a  gentleman,  a  man  of  refined  feelings,  of  intellectual 
tastes,  of  unusual  culture?  To  be  herded  with  the  vicious, 
the  depraved,  the  brutal,  the  defective  or  degraded  organi- 
zations which  swell  the  mass  of  crime  in  our  land ;  to  be 
cut  off  from  all  other  human  intercourse,  all  converse  with 
the  world  of  intellect  and  culture;  to  pass  weary,  weary 
years  in  fruitless  manual  toil  and  pining  captivity;  to  wear 
the  garb  of  shame;  to  be  subject  to  rough  and  uneducated 
and  not  always  kindly  jailers" — here  something  choked 
his  utterance  for  awhile — "to  know  no  earthly  hope;  to 
see  the  long  vista  of  twenty  years'  monotonous  misery 
stretching  remorselessly  ahead,  and  all  this  in  the  flower 
of  youth  and  the  blossom-time  of  life?  From  six-and- 
twenty  to  six-and-forty!  Can  you  grasp  what  that 
means?  This,  and  more  than  this,  I  inflicted  on  the  friend 
who  loved  and  trusted  me;  and  of  this  I  declare  before 
God  and  man  I  repent,  and  desire  as  far  as  possible  to 
amend. 

"In  a  few  days  I  shall  be  in  a  felon's  cell.  I  shall  be 
happier  there  than  I  have  ever  been  in  the  brightest  mo- 
ments of  my  prosperity.  My  brothers,  I  still  bear  a  divine 
commission  to  warn  and  teach ;  I  beseech  you  to  heed  my 
story  and  take  warning.  Let  me  be  to  you  as  th£  sunken 
vessel  which  marks  the  treacherous  reef  beneath  the 
wave!  Listen  and  heed  w:ell  what  I  say,  as  it  were,  with 
dying  breath,  for  I  shall  be  civilly  dead,  virtually  dead, 
in  twelve  hours'  time.  I  repent,  and  there  is  mercy  for 
me  as  for  the  vilest;  but  I  can  never  undo  the  conse- 
quences of  my  sins — never,  though  I  strove  through  all 
the  endless  ages  of  eternity.  I  cannot  restore  honor  and 
innocence  to  her  whom  I  robbed  of  these  priceless  jewels. 
I  cannot  give  back  his  life  to  him  whose  blood  I  shed.  I 
cannot  recall  the  years  of  youth,  and  hope,  and  health, 
and  power  of  wide  usefulness  which  were  blasted  in  the 
prison  of  my  friend.  It  were  rash  to  say  that  the 
Almighty  cannot  do  these  things ;  it  is  certain  He  cannot 
without  disordering  the  whole  scheme  of  human  life,  cer- 
tain that  He  will  not.  How  far  the  human  will  can  frus- 
trate the  divine  purposes  has  never  been  revealed  to  mor- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  383 

tal  man — is  probably  unknown  to  the  wisdom  of  seraphs ; 
but  this  we  know,  that  nothing  can  happen  without 
divine  permission.  It  may  be  that  man's  will  is  abso- 
lutely free  with  regard  to  thought,  and  only  limited  with 
regard  to  action,  to  its  effects  upon  others.  Certain  it  is, 
that  God  can  bring  good  out  of  evil,  and  that  those  who 
trust  in  Him,  however  oppressed  and  afflicted  by  the 
Wickedness  of  their  fellow-men,  wrill  nevertheless  be 
delivered  in  all  their  afflictions,  and  that  to  them  'all 
things  work  for  good.'  These  are  my  last  words,  dear 
brothers.  Ponder  them,  I  beseech  you,-as  men  ponder 
dying  words,  even  of  the  vilest." 

The  dean  ceased,  and,  turning,  as  usual,  to  the  east, 
repeated  the  ascription  with  humble  reverence.  He  then 
turned  once  more  to  the  congregation,  and  seated  himself, 
with  a  sigh  of  exhaustion;  while  the  bishop,  whose  eyes 
were  full  of  tears,  stood  with  uplifted  hand  and  pro- 
nounced the  benediction,  in  a  moved  and  awe-stricken 
voice,  upon  the  agitated,  half-terrified  multitude,  and 
upon  the  unheeding  ears  of  the  dean. 

As  this  strange  discourse  proceeded,  the  excitement  of 
the  congregation  had  waxed  higher  and  higher,  and 
spread  itself  by  the  irresistible  contagion  of  sympathy 
which  exists  in  a  vast  assembly.  The  prevalent  idea  was 
that  the  dean  was  mad.  Many  people  present  had  heard 
the  story  of  his  youth,  and  knew  how  bitter  had  been  his 
sorrow  for  his  friend's  disgrace,  and  it  was  not  unnatural 
to  suppose  that  long  brooding  upon  his  early  grief  had, 
in  a  moment  of  mental  aberration,  worked  itself  into  the 
hallucination  that  he  was  himself  the  doer  of  the  crime 
which  had  wrought  such  sorrow. 

In  spite  of  the  rumors  circulated  so  swiftly  within  the 
last  few  days,  there  were  not  many  who  believed  the 
dean's  accusations  against  himself.  All  were,  however, 
immensely  relieved  when  the  painful  scene  was  ended. 
Women  had  become  hysterical,  and  some  had  fainted  anJ 
been  carried  out;  the  choristers  were  mostly  pale  with 
affright;  the  clergy  were  dismayed,  and  whispered  to- 
gether about  the  expediency  of  putting  an  end  to  this 
painful  exhibition.  Among  the  few  who  took  the  sermon 
seriously  was  the  clergyman  who  had  heard  the  death-bed 


384  THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

statement  of  Alma  Judkins.     This  man  heard,  and  trem- 
bled and  wept. 

The  prayer  after  the  blessing  was  ended,  the  congrega- 
tion rose  from  their  knees,  the  organ  broke  forth  in  melo- 
dious thunders,  and  the  choir  began  their  slow  and 
orderly  procession  as  usual.  But  the  dean  did  not 
descend  from  the  pulpit  and  take  his  usual  place  in  the 
rear  of  the  clergy,  and  the  bishop,  thinking  he  must  be 
ill,  directed  a  verger  to  go  and  offer  him  help.  The  man, 
excited  and  overstrained  as  he  was  by  the  strong  feelings 
stirred  up  by  that  strange  discourse,  ascended  the  stairs 
and  spoke  softly  to  the  dean,  who  had  not  moved  from 
his  marble  composure.  There  was  no  answer. 

A  cry  burst  from  the  man's  lips,  and  rang  above  the 
rolling  organ  harmonies  to  the  very  ends  of  the  long 
aisles.  A  scene  of  extraordinary  confusion  ensued.  The 
congregation,  unnerved  and  excited  as  they  were,  ran 
tumultuously  hither  and  thither;  the  choir  broke  from 
their  ranks,  and  clustered  about  the  pulpit  steps  like  a 
flock  of  fluttered  doves;  the  music  stopped  abruptly,  with 
a  harsh  discord,  for  the  pupil  who  was  working  the  stops, 
looking  down  to  discover  the  cause  of  the  strange  tumult, 
cried,  ''The  dean  is  dead,"  and  the  organist  sprang  from 
his  seat  with  a  cry  of  sorrow. 

They  lowered  the  lifeless  form  from  the  pulpit,  and 
laid  it  upon  the  altar  steps.  Some  surgeons — the  dean'i; 
own  doctor  among  them — sprang  through  the  crowd, 
and  pronounced  the  dean  to  be  beyond  all  human  aid; 
and  following  them  came  a  tall  youth,  dark-eyed,  and 
dressed  in  black. 

•  "Not  dead!    not  dead!     Oh,  my  father!"  he  sobbed: 
"and  I  helped  to  break  his  heart!     Oh,  my  father!" 

Him  they  hurried  away  unobserved,  and  the  bishop's 
clarion  voice,  a  voice  now  without  a  rival,  rang  through 
the  confused  tumult,  full  of  indignation  and  sharp 
rebuke.  He  bid  the  people  return  to  their  places,  and 
consider  the  sanctity  of  the  spot;  and,  when  he  was; 
silently  obeyed,  he  told  them  that  the  dean's  soul  had 
fled,  and  asked  them  to  kneel  and  repeat  the  Commenda- 
tory Prayer,  while  the  body  was  borne  from  the  spot.  He 
made  a  sign  to  the  organist,  who,  blinded  with  tears, 
resumed  his  seat,  and  thundered  out  the  heart-shaking 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  385 

anguish  of  the  "Funeral  March,"  while  at  the  same 
moment  the  heavy  sound  of  the  deep-toned  knell  boomed 
slowly  over  the  startled  sunshiny  city. 

For  a  brief  moment  the  bishop  knelt  silently  by  the 
lifeless  form,  which  lay  like  a  sacrifice  upon  the  altar 
step,  and,  making  the  holy  sign,  he  closed  the  beautiful 
eyes  that  would  never  more  flash  their  electric  radiance 
of  passion  and  intellect  upon  the  listening  multitude;  he 
folded  the  lifeless  hands  upon  the  heart  which  had  just 
broken  in  the  stress  of  its  awful  anguish;  and,  taking  a 
fold  of  the  surplice,  he  laid  it  over  the  marble  face  and 
the  eloquent  lips  which  would  never  more  charm  with 
their  golden  music.  Just  as  Cyril  shielded  the  unsus- 
pected passions  which  convulsed  his  face  from  the  public 
gaze  after  his  son's  baptism,  the  bishop  shielded  the 
passionless  quiet  of  his  features  now. 

Then  the  choir  paced  out  in  their  usual  order,  save 
that  the  dean  was  borne  by  some  of  the  choristers,  all  of 
whom  loved  him,  and  were  eager  to  render  him  this  last 
service;  and  thus,  to  the  wailing  music  and  heavy  thun- 
ders of  the  great  dirge,  and  the  deep  booming  of  the 
cathedral  knell,  amid  the  unwonted  tears  of  his  brother 
priests,  and  of  nearly  all  who  bore  office  in  the  cathedral, 
from  the  organist,  whose  tears  dropped  upon  the  keys  as 
he  played,  and  asked,  "When  shall  we  see  such  another?" 
to  the  man  who  rang  the  knell — Cyril  Maitland  was 
carried  out  into  the  same  warm  afternoon  sunshine  that 
was  gilding  the  Malbourne  belfry,  and  shining  on  the 
honest  faces  of  those  who  were  bidding  Everard  welcome 
after  his  long  exile,  and  offering  him  the  simple  homage 
of  their  belief  in  his  innocence. 

"How  are  the  mighty  fallen!  the  beauty  of  Israel  is 
slain  upon  the  high  places!"  mourned  the  bishop, 
silently,  in  the  words  of  David  over  his  fallen  foe  and 
friend — words  which  echoed  through  the  hearts  of  the 
other  clergy,  as  they  escorted  their  dean  for  the  last  time 
from  the  sanctuary. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLANB. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Still  unconscious  of  the  tragedy  that  was  being 
enacted  to  its  close  in  Belminster  Cathedral  that  sunny 
summer  afternoon,  the  little  family  circle  at  Malbourne 
finished  the  quiet  and  holy  day  as  they  had  begun  it,  and, 
retiring  early  to  rest,  slept  such  calm  and  refreshing 
slumbers  as  visit  the  gentle  and  the  good. 

Lilian's  last  thought  on  sleeping  and  first  on  waking 
was  for  Cyril,  and  how  she  might  help  to  heal  his  sorely 
sticken  soul,  while  the  'dreadful  certainty  which  had 
followed  on  her  long  suspense  and  doubt  on  the  subject 
of  his  guilt,  though  it  filled  her  with  deep  sorrow,  yet 
brought  the  calm  which  never  fails  to  accompany  cer- 
tainty, however  terrible. 

She  was  very  quiet  at  breakfast  next  morning,  and  Mr. 
Maitland,  observing  this,  attributed  it  to  the  reaction  fol- 
lowing on  the  excitement  of  the  last  few  days,  and  was 
more  cheery  and  chatty  than  usual  to  make  up  for  her 
defection. 

Mark  Anthony,  like  other  invalids,  was  always  very 
shaky  of  a  morning,  and  declined  this  day  to  rise  for  his 
breakfast;  so  a  saucer  of  milk  was  placed  by  his  padded 
basket  on  the  sunny  window-sill,  but  remained  untouched. 

The  creature  looked  up  in  response  to  the  caressing 
hand  and  voice  of  his  mistress,  and  purred  faintly,  but 
turned  away  his  head  from  the  proffered  milk;  and,  after 
coaxing  him,  and  offering  him  everything  she  could  think 
of,  Lilian  was  about  to  leave  her  pet  to  rest  and  recover 
strength  in  the  sunshine,  when  her  retreating  figure  was 
stayed  by  a  faint  mew,  and,  turning,  she  saw  the  poor 
little  thing  staggering  from  its  bed,  and  trying  to  follow 
her. 

She  ran  back  in  time  to  catch  the  little  body  as  h 
tottered  and  fell,  and,  with  a  loving  glance  and  one  soft 
attempt  at  a  purr,  lay  limp  and  lifeless  in  her  hands. 

"Oh,  Henry!"  she  cried,  the  hot  tears  raining  from  her 
eyes,  "my  pretty  Mark !" 

"I  could  have  better  spared  a  better  cat!"  said  Mr 
Maitland. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  387 

"No  cat  ever  had  a  pleasanter  life,  or  an  easier  death," 
said  Everard,  stroking  the  inanimate  fur.  "I  will  bury 
him  for  you,  Lilian.  Let  us  choose  a  pretty  spot  at  once." 

And  they  went  into  the  garden,  Everard  procuring  a 
spade  and  setting  to  work  with  a  practised  ease  that 
reminded  Lilian  of  his  long  years  of  hard  labor,  on  the 
flower-border  beneath  the  window,  on  the  sill  of  which 
the  deceased  had  spent  so  many  sunny  hours  in  peaceful 
meditation  upon  the  follies  of  mankind  and  the  wisdom 
of  the  feline  race. 

The  grave  had  been  properly  dug,  and  Everard  laid  the 
cat  in  it,  and  having  covered  him  with  a  verdant  shroud, 
reminded  Lilian  that  mourners  always  turned  from  the 
grave  before  the  painful  ceremony  of  shovelling  in  the 
earth  was  performed,  and  Lilian  was  obeying  this  sug- 
gestion, when  she  discovered  the  hitherto  unnoticed  pres- 
ence of  a  messenger,  who  handed  her  a  telegram. 

She  took  it  without  suspicion  and  delayed  opening  it 
until  she  had  spoken  a  kindly  word  to  the  messenger, 
and  directed  the  gardener  to  take  him  to  the  kitchen  for 
rest  and  refreshment. 

"If  he  had  not  caused  me  such  bitter  pain,"  she  said 
turning  to  Henry,  and  referring  to  the  cat,  while  she 
broke  open  the  envelope,  "I  should  not  have  loved  him 
half  so  much." 

"Dear  old  Mark!  We  shall  not  look  upon  his  like 
again.  He  did  indeed  give  the  world  assurance  of  a  cat." 

He  was  not  looking  at  Lilian,  but  into  the  grave,  and 
was  started  by  a  low  cry  of  intense  agony,  and  looking  up, 
saw  her  stagger  with  blanched  face  against  the  mullion  of 
the  window  where  the  roses  bloomed  round  her  head. 

"My  poor,  poor  boy!"  she  cried,  gaspingly. 

Everard  dropped  the  spade  and  came  to  her  assistance, 
and  she  gave  the  paper  with  the  terrible  tidings  into  his 
•band. 

"The  dean  died  yesterday  afternoon  in  the  cathedral," 
was  the  brief,  stern  announcement. 

"My  father,  oh,  my  father!  how  shall  we  shield  him?" 
cried  Lilian,  recovering  her  feet,  but  trembling  all  over. 
"I  always  open  his  telegrams  to  spare  him." 

Everard  said  nothing,  but  crushed  the  paper  fiercely  in 
his  pocket,  while  from  the  force  of  old  habit  he  took 


388  TEE  SILENCE  OF  D£A2V  MA.ITLA.N1J. 

his  spade  again  and  completed  his  task,  no  longer  careful 
to  spare  Lilian's  feelings,  but  stamping  the  earth  reso- 
lutely down,  and  planting  the  displaced  flowers  upon  it. 
Then  he  threw  the  spade  aside  with  a  deep  groan. 

"If  he  could  but  have  spoken  to  me  once,  only  once!" 
he  said. 

"He  got  your  letter,  dear,"  said  Lilian,  in  her  usual 
tones,  though  her  white  lips  quivered,  and  she  still  shook 
all  over;  "there  is  comfort  in  that." 

"Yes,  he  must  have  got  it.  He  could  not  have  been 
too  ill  to  read  it.  'In  the  cathedral.'  Oh,  Lilian,  he 
might  have  died  that  night!  There  was  probably  some 
heart  disease.  What  did  he  think  of  his  seizures?" 

"Mere  nervous  excitement.  He  did  not  consider  him- 
self ill.  He  had  advice.  Oh,  Henry,  my  father!" 

"It  will  be  a  blow." 

"It  will  kill  him!  He  is  feebler  than  you  think. 
How  can  he  bear  this?" 

"Dearest,"  said  Everard,  with  infinite  tenderness,  "it 
is  but  death,  remember.  He  might  have  heard  worse 
tidings." 

"My  poor  Cyril! — yes.  If  we  could  only  bear  the 
consequences  of  our  misdeeds  alone,  each  in  his  own  per- 
son, how  much  less  sorrowful  life  would  be!" 

"And  how  much  less  joyous,  Lilian!  Ah,  my  dear, 
this  must  be  faced,  and  we  must  take  what  comfort  we 
can!" 

Then  they  took  counsel  together,  and  decided  upon 
assuming  that  the  dean  was  very  ill,  and  that  they  were 
summoned  to  him  at  once.  They  could  then  accustom 
Mr.  Maitland's  mind  gradually  to  the  loss,  and  extinguish 
hope  by  degrees  until  they  arrived  at  Belminster,  when  it 
would  no  longer  be  possible  to  cherish  any  doubt. 

Everard  took  upon  himself  the  piteous  task  of  break- 
ing the  news,  while  Lilian  made  hurried  preparations  for 
their  departure.  He  went  with  a  beating  heart  to  the 
study  door,  and  knocked,  and  then  it  came  like  lightning 
across  him  that  he  had  so  gone  to  that  room  eighteen 
years  ago,  to  receive,  and  not  to  give,  ill  tidings. 

When  the  gentle  priest  lifted  his  white  head  with  a 
pleasant  smile  from  the  book  over  which  he  was  bending, 
he  could  not  but  think  of  the  awful  look  with  which  he 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  389 

had  greeted  him  on  his  last  entrance,  nor  could  he  quite 
forget  the  bitter  injustice  done  to  him  then  for  Cyril's 
sake.  It  seemed  a  terrible  retribution  for  the  guileless 
man,  whose  only  fault  was  too  great  a  pride  in  his  gifted 
son.  Everard  felt  as  if  his  heart  would  break.  He  could 
not  speak,  but  sat  down  and  burst  into  tears,  the  only 
tears  shed  for  Cyril  in  his  home.  The  fact  that  he,  and 
no  other,  had  to  deal  the  aged  father  this  cruel  blow,  on 
the  very  spot  where  so  cruel  a  blow  had  been  dealt  him 
through  that  dead  man's  fault,  seemed  an  awful  coinci- 
dence. 

Mr.  Maitland's  face  changed;  he  was  in  a  mood  to 
anticipate  calamity,  but  he  took  it  very  gently. 

"Is  it  Lilian?"  he  asked,  in  a  faint  voice. 

Everard  shook  his  head. 

"Not,  oh,  not  Cyril!"  faltered  the  old  man,  with  a 
piteous  accent,  which  showed  where  his  heart  was  most 
vulnerable. 

"He  is  ill,  sir,"  returned  Everard;  "seriously  ill." 

Then  he  told  him  of  the  arrangements  they  had  made 
for  going  at  once  to  Belminster,  and  offered  what  assist- 
ance was  needed. 

Mr.  Maitland  said  nothing,  but  rose  to  do  as  he  was 
bid  with  a  touching  acquiescence,  but  very  feeble  move- 
ments. He  seemed  to  age  ten  years  at  least  before  Ever- 
ard's  pitying  gaze,  and  was  apparently  unequal  to  the 
task  of  doing  anything  in  preparation  for  his  absence 
from  his  duties. 

They  drove  into  Oldport  just  in  time  to  catch  the  train, 
and  Everard  and  Lilian  trembled  for  the  poor  father  as 
they  passed  the  flaring  posters  which  announced  the  con- 
tents of  the  daily  papers,  and  read  in  great  capitals, 
"Sudden  Death  of  the  Dean  of  Belminster." 

But  Mr.  Maitland  did  not  appear  to  see  them;  he  was 
bewildered  and  preoccupied  in  his  manner,  and  asked 
only  one  question,  "Did  Cyril  himself  send  for  him?" 
and,  appearing  crushed  by  the  negative  answer,  made  no 
further  observation  upon  passing  events.  He  talked 
much  in  a  wandering  way  of  by-gone  days,  and  related 
old  forgotten  events  of  Cyril's  childhood,  surprising 
Lilian  by  vivid  reminiscences  that  were  dim  or  quite 
faded  in  her  memory,  and  laughing  gently  from  time  to 


39° 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAINLAND 


time  at  the  child's  quaint  sayings  and  little  drolleries  of 
long  ago.  , 

"They  were  twins,"  he  said,  addressing  Lilian,  as  if 
she  were  a  stranger,  "a  boy  and  a  girl — such  a  pretty 
pair,  and  so  good  and  cleverl  Exactly  alike,  and  so  fond 
of  each  other — so  fond  of  each  other!  Poor  dears!"  he 
added,  shaking  his  white  head  sorrowfully,  "drowned 
before  their  father's  eyes — before  his  very  eyes." 

"Oh,  Henry!''  murmured  Lilian,  in  a  choked  voice, 
"what  shall  we  do?  He  wanders;  he  confuses  us  with 
Cyril's  twins." 

"Do  not  excite  him;  it  is  only  temporary,"  Henry  whis- 
pered back. 

"Always  a  good  son —  a  good  son!"  continued  the 
stricken  father,  not  observing  their  comments;  "my  son, 
the  Dean  of  Belminster.  Do  you  know,"  he  added, 
with  a  pleasant  smile,  "he  has  been  offered  the  Bishopric 
of  Warham?" 

"Yes,  dear  father,"  replied  Lilian,  soothingly;  "but  he 
is  very,  very  ill." 

"111?"  he  returned,  with  a  troubled  look;  "not  Cyril? 
He  did  everything  well.  A  gifted  youth.  Little  Lilian 
was  so  like  him." 

"Dear  father,"  said  Lilian,  when  the  last  station 
before  Belminster  was  passed,  "Cyril  can  never  re- 
cover." 

"Is  that  true,  Henry?"  he  asked,  turning  sharply  to 
Everard. 

"It  is  too  true,  sir,"  he  replied,  gently.  "Try  to  be 
calm ;  we  shall  be  at  Belminster  in  five  minutes." 

The  old  man  looked  about  him  in  a  hopeless,  bewil- 
dered manner,  and  tried  to  speak,  but  his  trembling  lips 
refused  utterance.  Lilian  caressed  him,  and  spoke  sooth- 
ingly to  him,  as  if  to  some  frightened  child.  "Cyril  is 
gone  to  his  rest,  dear,"  she  said  at  last,  her  voice  breaking 
as  she  spoke. 

"Is  he — dead?"  he  asked,  with  great  difficulty;  and 
Lilian  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  he  smiled  a  gentle 
smile  that  went  to  their  very  hearts,  and  said  nothing 
more. 

They  drove  through  the  city  and  into  the  close,  in  the 
sunny,  slumbrous  noon,  past  the  red-brick  houses,  look- 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  HAITLAND. 


391 


ing  blank  in  the  sunshine,  with  their  white  blinds  darken- 
ing the  windows;  beneath  the  great  leafy  elms,  over 
which  some  rooks  were  sailing;  past  the  hoary  fragment 
of  cloister,  along  which  two  clergymen  were  pacing,  and 
talking  with  bated  breath  of  yesterday's  tragedy;  be- 
neath the  cool  shadow  of  the  great  gray  minster,  whose 
vaulted  roof  and  long  aisles  had  scarcely  ceased  to  thrill 
with  the  passionate  anguish  of  Cyril's  breaking  heart, 
and  round  whose  lofty  pinnacles  swallows  were  sweeping 
in  the  warm,  blue  air;  and  drew  up  before  the  pointed 
arches  of  the  silent  Deanery,  the  door  of  which  opened 
noiselessly  and  discovered  a  weeping  figure  ready  to  re- 
ceive them. 

Before  they  could  respond  to  Miss  Mackenzie's  greet- 
ing, Everard  was  obliged  to  call  Lilian's  attention  to  her 
father,  who  had  to  be  lifted  from  the  carnage  and  taken 
at  once  to  bed,  whei",  he  remained  for  many  days  in  a 
lethargic  condition. 

There  would  be  no  .uquest,  Miss  Mackenzie  informed 
them,  the  death  being  p^vfectly  natural  and  accounted  for 
by  the  disease  from  which  his  medical  adviser,  as  well  as 
the  dean,  had  long  known  him  to  be  suffering — a  disease 
which  might  still  have  permitted  him  years  of  life  and 
strength  under  favorable  conditions.  His  children  had 
not  been  sent  for,  as,  under  the  very  painful  circum- 
stances, Miss  Mackenzie  could  not  undertake  the  respon- 
sibility of  summoning  them. 

"Painful  circumstances?''  asked  Lilian,  whose  marble- 
white  features  showed  scarcely  more  life  than  those  of 
the  brother  over  whose  corpse  she  had  just  been  bending 
in  tearless,  speechless  sorrow,  whose  features  indeed 
looked  more  like  those  of  the  dean  than  ever. 

Miss  Mackenzie  having  turned  the  key  in  the  door  to 
insure  uninterrupted  privacy,  sat  down  in  the  darkened 
chamber,  and,  saying  that  Dr.  Everard  was  better  calcu- 
lated than  any  one  else  to  judge  of  the  accuracy  of  what 
she  was  about  to  relate,  told  them  that  it  was  the  general 
opinion  that  the  dean  had  been  visited  by  temporary 
insanity  while  in  the  pulpit  the  day  before— an  opinion, 
however,  which  was  not  shared  by  the  doctor.  Then, 
beginning  with  the  dean's  unwonted  demeanor  on  the 
Saturday,  an^  tte  abrupt  manner  in  which  he  sent  his 


392 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  M  AIT  LAND. 


children  away,  she  related  the  whole  story  of  the  last 
Sunday,  and  the  substance  of  the  extraordinary  sermon 
he  had  delivered  with  his  dying  breath. 

Lilian  listened  quietly  without  any  interrogation  what- 
ever; but  when  Miss  Mackenzie  came  to  the  dying  man's 
terrible  confession,  her  marble  stillness  left  her,  and  she 
burst  into  tears  and  wept  silently  till  the  end  of  the  story, 
murmuring,  under  her  breath,  "Thank  God!  oh,  thank 
God!"  She  felt  that  her  brother  was  in  some  measure 
restored  to  her  by  his  penitence. 

The  dean's  affairs  were  in  perfect  order; —  he  had  made 
every  preparation  for  death.  The  bishop  was  co-execu- 
tor with  Lilian,  of  a  will  he  had  made  some  time  previ- 
ously, by  which  he  left  half  his  property  to  Henry  Ever- 
ard,  and  the  other  half  to  his  two  children,  under  the 
trusteeship  of  Lilian,  till  they  should  be  of  age,  when  the 
boy,  in  consideration  of  his  infirmity,  was  to  receive  two 
thirds  of  the  children's  moiety,  and  the  girl  one. 

Certain  legacies  were  to  be  deducted  from  the  whole 
amount  of  his  property,  and,  by  a  codicil,  added  on  the 
day  before  his  death,  there  was  to  be  a  further  deduction 
of  five  hundred  pounds,  which  was  bequeathed  to  "Ben- 
jamin Lee,  only  son  of  Alma  Judkins,  widow,  formerly  of 
Swaynestone,  and  lately  deceased  in  Belminster."  The 
said  Benjamin  Lee  was  further  recommended  to  the 
interest  and  protection  of  "my  beloved  twin-sister. 
Lilian  Maitland." 

The  terms  of  this  testament  were  as  yet  unknown  to 
any  one  except  the  solicitor  and  the  bishop,  who  had  that 
morning  acquainted  himself  with  them.  He  had  made 
this  early  inquisition  into  the  dean's  temporal  affairs  in 
consequence  of  finding  in  the  study  a  sealed  packet 
addressed  to  himself,  as  executor,  "In  case  of  my  death 
before  I  have  time  to  lay  it  before  the  magistrates  my- 
self," dated  on  the  day  before  his  death,  duly  signed  and 
witnessed,  and  containing  a  full  and  detailed  account  of 
the  death  of  Benjamin  Lee,  "to  be  read  immediately 
after  my  death,  that  justice  may  be  done  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble to  those  I  have  wronged." 

The  bishop,  who  had  with  natural  reluctance  under- 
taken the  management  of  the  dean's  affairs  only  upon  hi? 
earnest  solicitation,  and  under  the  consideration  that  in 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  393 

the  course  of  nature  the  dean  would  outlive  him,  now 
wished  most  heartily  that  he  had  had  sufficient  strength 
of  mind  to  resist  his  importunity  on  the  subject.  H 
wished  it  doubly  when,  on  that  very  morning,  the  clergy  - 
man  who  had  heard  Alma's  confession,  and  taken  it  doww 
at  her  request  in  writing,  to  which  she  affixed  her  signa- 
ture, confided  the  circumstances  to  him  and  asked  his 
advice  upon  the  subject. 

Both  the  bishop  and  Mr.  Strickland  had  separately  hes- 
itated to  publish  the  dead  man's  disgrace,  though  the 
latter  had  been  solemnly  charged  to  do  so  by  the  dying 
Alma,  and  summoned  to  her  death  bed  for  the  express 
purpose  of  clearing  Everard.  The  bishop,  even  after 
reading  the  written  confession,  still  held  to  the  theory  of 
insanity;  but,  after  the  coincidence  of  the  two  indepen- 
dent confessions,  there  was  no  longer  any  room  for  doubt, 
and  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  communicate  at  once  with  the 
Everard  family,  and  take  instant  steps  toward  clearing 
Henry  Everard's  character,  which  he  did  accordingly. 
Nevertheless,  Mr.  Strickland  was  glad  to  share  the  respon- 
sibility with  him. 

But  of  this  Miss  Mackenzie,  of  course  knew  nothing, 
and  without  had  enough  to  tell  her  auditors.  She  ended 
by  putting  into  Lilian's  hands  a  report  taken  in  short-hand 
of  the  dean's  last  sermon,  which  Henry  and  Lilian  perused 
together. 

Everard  passed  a  long,  long  time  alone  in  the  presence 
of  the  dead.  When  he  entered  the  silent,  shadowed 
chamber  from  which  the  summer  airs  were  excluded,  and 
across  the  gloom  of  which  one  or  two  long  golden  rays  of 
sunshine  strayed  through  unguarded  chinks,  and  where 
the  air  was  heavy  with  that  indescribable  something  that 
we  dare  not  name,  and  laden  with  the  rich  perfume  of 
flowers,  he  stood  still,  with  a  spasm  at  his  heart,  and 
feared  to  raise  the  handkerchief  from  the  veiled  face. 

And  when  at  last  he  found  courage  to  gaze  upon  the 
beautiful  and  placid  features,  pale  with  the  awful  pallor 
that  only  comes  when  the  spirit  has  flown,  he,  who  had 
looked  upon  death  in  the  course  of  everyday  duty  so 
often  and  under  so  many  painful  circumstances,  realized 
for  the  first  time  the  icy  horror  and  irreconcilable  enmity 
of  death.  A  sharp  pain,  like  the  contraction  of  iron 


394 


THE  SILENCE   OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


wires,  clutched  at  his  eyes,  which  filled  with  those  scald- 
ing tears  that  do  not  fall  or  give  relief,  and  only  spring 
once  or  twice  in  life  from  the  very  deepest  sources  in  our 
nature;  and  for  a  few  moments  he  would  have  given  all 
that  remained  to  him  of  life  for  one  friendly  glance  of 
the  beautiful  ever-darkened  eyes,  one  clasp  of  the  pale, 
cold  hands,  to  hear  those  mute  lips  open  once  more  with 
the  cordial  warmth  of  by-gone  days.  "Old  Hal!"  he 
fancied  he  heard  him  say,  as  on  the  fatal  day  when  last 
they  met  as  friends. 

The  quiet  features  never  moved  from  their  marble 
calm,  and  yet  to  the  living  friend's  fancy  the  lights  of 
mirth,  of  intellect,  of  affection,  seemed  to  play  upon 
them  as  in  their  by-gone  youth,  and  the  sacred  flame  of 
high  aspiration,  holy  and  pure  passion,  seemed  to  fire 
them.  Old  jests,  old  sayings,  things  grave  and  gay, 
earnest  and  light-hearted,  rushed  rapidly  back  upon  his 
memory.  He  saw  Cyril  a  boy  again — a  child  with  a 
seraphic  face,  and  a  half-piteous  look  of  frailty  and  de- 
pendence, combined  with  intellectual  power;  he  saw  him 
a  youth  full  of  high  hopes  and  warm  enthusiasms,  bril- 
liant, generous,  fascinating,  and  above  all,  pure. 

He  saw  him  in  his  young  manhood,  a  being  so  saintly 
that  his  very  presence  seemed  to  banish  the  possibility  of 
unholy  thought;  a  lover,  the  purity  of  whose  ardent  love 
seemed  almost  to  rebuke  passion;  a  scholar,  a  priest:  he 
thought  of  his  many  gifts  and  attainments,  and  all  the 
beautiful  promise  of  his  early  manhood.  In  such  a 
nature,  weakness  and  errors,  the  common  heritage  of 
humanity,  might  be  expected;  but  there  was  an  incredi- 
ble horror  in  the  thought  that  this  man  was  stained  with 
vice  and  crime.  Surely,  Everard  thought,  as  he  had 
thought  so  many  times  in  the  loneliness  of  his  cell,  such 
things  were  utterly  alien  to  this  pure  and  noble  nature, 
and  utterly  alien  and  incongruous  they  were.  Surely, 
if  there  were  a  soul  fitted  to  resist  the  importunity  of 
man's  lower  nature,  here  was  one;  and  here  indeed  was 
one. 

Then  he  recalled  the  anguish  of  Cyril's  words — almost 
the  last  he  ever  spoke  to  him — "Henry,  I  am  a  man!" 
and  reflected  that  to  a  human  being  there  is  no  moral 
descent  impossible.  Yet  from  what  a  height  had  this 


TUU  aiLENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLANU.  395 

man  fallen !  And  what  a  career  he  might  have  had,  who 
now  lay  dead  of  a  broken  heart  before  him;  and  what 
anguish  unspeakable  might  have  been  spared  to  others, 
had  this  gifted  and  noble  nature  had  the  courage  to  be 
true  to  itself!  He  thought  of  the  terrific  strength  of 
those  master-passions,  ambition,  pride,  and  self-love,  in 
that  otherwise  weak  soul,  and  shuddered. 

They  had  thrown  a  rich  Indian  cloth  over  the  library 
table,  and  upon  this  they  had  laid  the  dean,  robed  again 
as  he  had  been  at  the  moment  of  his  death.  The  still 
room,  with  its  studious  gloom  and  its  rows  of  learned 
tomes  of  divinity,  was  decked  with  flowers,  and  wreaths 
and  bouquets  covered  the  feet  of  the  dead,  and  lay  upon 
the  outer  folds  of  the  white  robe.  In  the  pale  ha"nds 
Lilian  had  placed  some  blood-red  roses,  which  she  had 
brought  from  Malbourne,  plucked  from  two  trees  they 
planted  on  their  twenty-first  birthday — an  unacknowl- 
edged instinct  made  her  shrink  from  the  white  flowers  so 
usual  in  the  death-chamber — and  these  and  the  scarlet 
doctor's  hood  gave  a  strange  lustre  to  the  solemn  scene, 
and  strongly  emphasized  the  Parian  whiteness  of  the 
face  and  hands.  Those  who  saw  Cyril  die  had  seen  the 
agony  pass  from  his  face,  which  was,  as  it  were,  transfig- 
ured at  the  close  of  his  sermon  by  a  look  of  ineffable 
serenity,  a  look  that  never  left  it.  The  dead  face  was 
that  of  the  young  ideal  Cyril  of  Henry's  youth,  the  man 
his  Maker  intended  him  to  be;  the  man  he  ever  lived 
afterward  in  his  friend's  thoughts.  Both  features  and 
expression  now  had  the  strong  likeness  to  Lilian's  which 
had  been  so  marked  in  their  childhood. 

The  door  of  the  silent  chamber  was  opened  more  than 
once  that  afternoon,  and  softly  closed  again,  unnoticed 
by  Henry;  and  those  who  thus  forbode  to  intrude  on  his 
grief  never  forgot  the  scene — the  dead  man  lying  in  his 
awful  quiet  like  some  sculptured  effigy  on  a  tomb,  but 
not  more  statuesque  than  the  living  friend  seated  in  the 
chair  by  his  side,  facing  him,  with  his  gray  head  sup- 
ported on  his  hand,  and  his  eyes  riveted  upon  the  unsee- 
ing face. 

Pleasant  summer  sounds  of  bird  and  insect,  and  even 
the  far-off  laughter  of  children,  fell  deadened  upon  the 
hushed  silence  of  that  darkened  room;  the  silvery  ca- 


3g6  TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

dences  of  the  cathedral  chimes  entered  it  from  time  to 
time,  and  at  the  hour  of  even-song  the  distant  thunder  of 
organ-music  broke  solemnly  upon  its  calm. 

The  lines  of  straying  sunshine  stole  slowly  from  point 
to  point;  once  the  end  of  a  broken  shaft  fell  upon  the 
pale  hands  and  gilded  the  edge  of  a  paper  clasped  in  the 
unconscious  fingers — Everard  knew  that  it  was  his  own 
letter  which  had  been  so  clasped  at  the  moment  of  death, 
and  which  those  who  found  it  in  the  nerveless  hand,  on 
seeing,  had  again  shut  in  the  stiffening  clasp — the  waver- 
ing shadows  of  the  leaves  and  boughs  played  in  varying 
dance  over  the  closed  blinds  of  the  casements,  hour  after 
hour  Avent  by,  and  the  living  man  seemed  to  change  into 
the  semblance  of  the  still  form  he  gazed  upon. 

He  thought  many,  many  thoughts,  such  as  no  words 
can  express,  and  experienced  feelings  such  as  no  speech 
may  render — thoughts  which  arise  only  when  the  intel- 
lect is  quickened  by  the  stir  of  unwonted  feeling; 
thoughts  of  life  and  its  deep  meaning,  death  and  its  dark 
mystery;  of  the  strangeness  of  man's  destiny;  of  the  pur- 
pose of  his  being;  of  the  limits  of  human  will,  and  of  the 
eternal  consequences  of  human  action;  of  the  glory  and 
beauty  of  moral  rectitude,  and  the  nothingness  of  all 
human  achievement  besides. 

Through  all  his  thoughts  there  ran  the  deep,  strong 
undercurrent  of  unutterable  pity  for  the  man  who  lay 
before  him,  slain  in  his  prime  by  the  pain  of  his  own  mis- 
doing, and  blended  with  that,  there  was  also  a  thankful- 
ness that  his  agony  was  stilled  at  last,  and  his  soul  at  rest. 
He  recognized  the  righteousness  of  the  feeling  which 
prompted  Cyril  to  his  tardy  confession,  and  knew  that  no 
life  save  that  imprisoned  and  degraded  one  from  which 
he  had  just  escaped  would  have  been  possible  to  him. 
He  thought  of  the  iron  strength  of  this  man's  pride  and 
self-love,  and  wondered  at  the  mystery  of  human  in- 
iquity. 

He  mused  on  his  own  passionate  and  life-long  devotion 
to  the  man  who  had  so  terribly  injured  him,  a  devotion 
that  neither  his  weakness  nor  even  his  crime  could 
destroy,  and  he  asked  himself  what  it  was  in  Cyril  that 
so  enchained  not  only  the  best  and  deepest  affections  of 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLANU  397 

his  friends,  but  also  the  love  of  all  those  with  whom  he 
came  in  contact.  , 

It  seemed  to  him  that  there  must  be  some  deep  and 
enduring  virtue  in  a  man  who  wins  such  love  and  devo- 
tion; it  appeared  incredible  that  the  affections  of  honest 
hearts  should  be  wasted  on  what  is  utterly  worthless. 

He  reflected  how  he  could  best  serve  the  dead.  He 
saw  that  he  had  been  wrong  in  aiding  him  to  conceal  his 
past — that  nothing  but  truth  can  serve  any  human  being; 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  might  fulfil  those  duties 
he  had  left  undone,  and  carry  on  those  that  death  had 
interrupted.  He  thought  especially  of  Alma's  neglected 
child. 

He  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  strong  feeling  we 
have  in  the  presence  of  the  dead,  that  the  spirit  is  hov- 
ering about  its  forsaken  shrine,  and  is  conscious  of  the 
thoughts  we  cherish,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  dead 
lips  smiled  approval  of  his  resolution.  He  mused  upon 
the  unfinished  letter  found  upon  Cyril's  writing-table, 
and  dated  on  the  day  of  his  death — "Dear  Henry,  your 
noble  letter  has  broken  my  heart,"  and  he  felt  as  in  his 
ardent  youth,  that  he  could  go  through  fire  and  water  for 
this  man. 

He  thought  of  old  that  Cyril's  character  contained  the 
^wig  weibliche  element  Goethe  prized.  He  was  wrong ; 
that  saving  ingredient  was  in  his  own  manlier  nature,  not 
in  the  weak  Cyril's. 

Through  all  his  long  reverie  he  did  not  stir  from  his 
statue-like  calm;  nothing  in  the  still  chamber  marred 
the  quiet  which  is  the  homage  we  pay  to  that  silent 
terror,  death.  His  very  breath  seemed  stilled  in  the 
intensity  of  his  abstraction;  he  did  not  see  the  shifting 
of  the  sunbeams,  the  gradual  drooping  of  the  flowers,  the 
fall  of  petal  after  petal,  nor  did  he  hear  the  recurrent 
chime-music,  though  years  afterward  these  things  re- 
called the  solemn  thoughts  of  that  long  vigil. 

The  air  was  cool  and  refreshing,  and  the  slanting  sun- 
beams were  dyeing  the  minster  towers  a  clear  wine-like 
crimson,  when  his  long  reverie  was  broken  at  last  by  the 
entrance  of  Cyril's  orphan  children. 

Then  he  rose,  greeted  them  affectionately,  and,  bidding 
them  look  on  him  as  their  father  now,  he  left  them  alone 
with  their  dead. 


SILENCE  OF  DEAX  MAITLAND. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Everard  closed  the  door  softly  behind  him,  and  went 
into  the  hall  with  a  solemn  radiance  on  his  face,  and  was 
about  to  ascend  the  staircase  to  inquire  into  Mr.  Mait- 
land's  condition,  when  he  was  met  by  a  gentleman  with 
a  benign  and  intellectual  face  and  a  dignified  bearing. 

"Doctor  Everard,"  he  said,  in  a  rich,  deep  voice, 
"allow  me  the  honor  of  shaking  hands  with  a  man  whose 
noble  conduct  has  perhaps  saved  a  human  soul.  I  am 
the  Bishop  of  Belminster,"  he  added,  "the  late  dean's 
executor  and  friend,  and  am  intrusted  by  him  with  the 
duty  of  clearing  your  character  from  the  imputations, 
which  have  lain  so  long  upon  it." 

And,  leading  him  into  the  study,  where  the  evidences 
of  the  dean's  daily  occupations  and  the  empty  chair  by 
the  table,  on  which  lay  his  unfinished  tasks,  spoke  more' 
pathetically  of  his  death  than  his  quiet  form  itself, ,  the 
bishop  acquainted  him  briefly  with  all  that  the  reader 
knows  already  concerning  the  will,  the  written  confes- 
sion, and  Alma's  death-bed  depositions.  Having  done 
this,  he  led  him  to  the  drawing-room,  which  was  flushed 
through  its  closed  blinds  with  the  glory  of  the  summer 
sunset,  and  introduced  him  to  his  brothers,  Keppel  and 
George,  and  his  sister,  Mrs.  Whiteford,  who  were  waiting 
to  receive  him,  Keppel  having  brought  the  children  from 
Portsmouth. 

They  greeted  him  with  cordial  affection,  and  many 
expressions  of  regret  and  contrition  for  their  long  injus- 
tice; and  Keppel  introduced  him  to  Lady  Everard,  to 
whom  he  had  been  married  after  his  brother's  disgrace. 

Henry  was  glad,  though  he  could  not  but  feel  the  meet- 
ing extremely  painful,  especially  under  Cyril's  roof.  The 
bishop  had  considerately  withdrawn  on  presenting  him, 
and,  after  the  first  confused  expressions  of  welcome,  re- 
gret, and  congratulation,  the  relatives  scarcely  knew  what 
to  say  to  each  other  until  Henry  at  last  expressed  a  hope 
that  all  knowledge  of  Cyril's  share  in  Benjamin  Lee's 
death  might  be  spared  his  children,  which  all  agreed,  if 
possible,  to  do. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


399 


Admiral  Sir  Keppel  and  the  Rev.  George,  though  both 
some  years  older  than  Henry,  looked  younger;  neither 
had  a  gray  hair,  and  both  were  fine,  handsome,  robust 
men.  They  were  much  distressed  at  the  marks  of  hard- 
ship and  suffering  upon  him,  and  Mrs.  Whiteford  wept 
and  blamed  herself  greatly  for  allowing  her  husband  to 
dissuade  her  from  communicating  with  him  in  his  trouble. 

"You  must  pay  us  a  long  visit,  Hal,"  said  Keppel. 
"We  have  a  nice  place  near  Ryde,  and  the  children  will 
take  you  about  in  their  boat,  and  make  you  young 
again.'' 

"And  you  must  certainly  come  to  us,"  added  George; 
"my  wife  told  me  to  bring  you  home  this  very  night. 
Our  place  is  very  healthily  situated  on  the  hill  yonder, 
just  outside  Belminster." 

"And  to  us,"  added  Mrs.  Whiteford.  "My  husband 
wants  you  to  go  for  a  cruise  with  us.  That  will  recruit 
your  health,  if  anything  will." 

"Ah,  Henry,  I  can  sympathize  with  you!"  said 
George,  with  deep  solemnity.  "I  know  what  a  prison  is 
like.  I  had  a  twelve-month,  the  effects  of  which  I  am 
still  feeling,"  he  added,  with  a  sigh  of  intense  enjoy- 
ment. 

"You  had  a  twelvemonth?"  inquired  Henry,  scanning 
his  solemn  clerical  brother  from  head  to  foot  with  aston- 
ishment. 

"You  may  well  look  surprised,"  said  Keppel,  "and 
wonder  what  parsons  have  to  do  with  the  inside  of  a  jail." 

"I  have  experienced  the  honor  of  persecution,  Henry," 
explained  George,  with  deep  satisfaction.  "The  rigors 
of  my  captivity  were  greatly  softened  by  the  sympathy  of 
faithful  people." 

"Rigors  indeed!"  growled  Keppel.  "The  beggar  was 
in  clover,  and  almost  on  parole.  But,  as  I  tell  George, 
he  would  have  got  double  the  time,  and  been  cashiered 
into  the  bargain,  if  I  had  been  in  command." 

"But,  my  dear  George,"  said  Henry,  "what  were 
you  persecuted  for?  and  how  could  you  be  imprisoned? 
I  thought  the  fires  of  Smithfield,  the  memory  of  which 
you  used  to  be  so  fond  of  recalling,  were  extinguished 
centuries  ago." 

"You  are  mistaken,  Henry,"  returned  George,  in  his 


400 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  M AIT 'LAND. 


gruffest  bass.  "In  the  seclusion  of  your  dungeon  you 
have  been  spared  even  the  knowledge  of  the  awful  evils 
we  in  the  world  have  been  called  upon  to  face.  Never 
was  the  enemy  of  mankind  more  active  than  in  these  lat- 
ter evil  days.  The  Catholic  Church  is  beleaguered  by  all 
the  powers  of  darkness,  and  those  of  her  priests  who  dare 
to  be  faithful  are  hurled  into  dungeons." 

"The  Catholic  Church?  Why,  I  thought  you  were  one 
of  the  strongest  pillars  of  Protestantism,  and  renounced 
the  scarlet  woman  and  all  her  works?  I  am  glad  to  see 
that  persecution  and  dungeons  have  not  permanently 
damaged  you." 

Keppel  remembered  the  solemn  tenant  of  the  near 
chamber  in  time  to  stifle  a  burst  of  laughter,  while 
George  looked  embarrassed,  and  stammered  a  good  deal. 
"Ah,  Henry!"  he  replied,  "you  are  thinking  of 
twenty  years  ago,  when  I  was  in  the  depths;  I  have 
advanced  greatly  since  then." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  a  Ritualist?"  asked 
Henry,  eyeing  his  brother's  sacerdotal  appearance  with 
affectionate  amusement. 

"My  dear  Henry,"  said  Keppel,  interrupting  George's 
disclaimer  of  this  term,  "that  fellow  is  the  Ritualist,  the 
ring  leader  of  them  all.  What  the  service  would  come  to 
if  mutineers  were  let  down  as  lightly  as  he  is,  Heaven  only 
knows.  Persecution  indeed!" 

Henry  smiled.  "How  this  would  have  amused  Cyril!" 
he  said,  involuntarily.  "No,  George;  I  am  not  mock- 
ing," he  added,  in  response  to  a  pained  look  on  his 
brother's  face;  for,  as  he  learned  subsequently,  Cyril  had 
been  wont  to  tease  his  reverend  brother  a  good  deal  on 
the  extreme  to  which  he  had  veered  from  his  ultra- 
Protestant  opinions.  "If  you  think  it  your  duty  to 
differ  from  your  bishop,  every  one  must  honor  you  for 
going  to  prison  about  it.  But  your  tenets  used  to  be  so 
very  extreme  in  the  other  direction.  Tell  me  about  your 
children." 

Every  effort  was  made  to  keep  Cyril's  funeral  as  pri- 
vate as  possible,  but  in  vain.  Lilian,  who  was  co-executor 
with  the  bishop,  had  so  much  to  occupy  her  in  her 
father's  illness,  and  her  great  anxiety  to  spare  Marion 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  ^rl 

and  Everard  the  slightest  suspicion  of  the  tragedy  which 
killed  their  father,  that  she  left  the  funeral  arrangements 
to  the  bishop,  only  stipulating  for  extreme  privacy.  By 
some  perverse  destiny,  the  bishop  misunderstood  her 
wishes  and  those  of  the  family,  which  were  that  Cyril's 
remains  should  be  taken  to  Malbourne,  and  at  the  last 
moment  it  was  discovered  that  all  was  arranged  for  an 
interment  in  the  cathedral  burial-ground. 

Thither,  therefore,  the  dean's  remains  were  borne  by 
the  hands  of  those  who  had  loved  him  and  volunteered 
for  this  service,  and  the  mourners,  on  following  their 
dead  into  the  cathedral,  were  dismayed  to  rind  it  thronged 
from  end  to  end  by  people,  who  wore  mourning,  and 
many  of  whom  bore  wreaths  for  the  dead.  They  had 
feared  a  curious  crowd,  but  the  majority  of  this  crowd 
were  animated  by  something  better  than  curiosity.  Those 
who  accepted  the  dean's  terrible  revelations  came  to 
honor  his  penitence  and  respect  his  fallen  estate;  many 
clergy  came  in  the  spirit  which  moved  his  brother  seer  to 
do  honor  to  the  remains  of  the  disobedient  prophet. 

But  the  public  at  large  utterly  refused  all  credence  to 
his  guilt,  not  only  at  the  \irne  of  the  funeral,  but  even 
after  Alma's  confession  had  been  made  public.  Not  a 
woman  in  Belminster,  and  not  many  men,  held  the 
golden-mouthed  preacher  and  large-hearted  philanthro- 
pist to  be  guilty.  The  question  was  largely  discussed  in 
the  press,  as  well  as  in  private  circles;  instances  of  simi- 
lar self-accusations  of  half-forgotten  crimes  by  those 
whose  minds  had  been  consumed  by  long-brooding  grief 
and  strained  by  overwork  were  cited,  and  it  was  the 
popular  opinion  that  the  dean  died  in  the  excitement  of  a 
terrible  hallucination. 

Flags  were  floated  half-mast  high,  shops  were  shut,  and 
knells  were  tolled  in  the  city  churches  and  in  some  vil- 
lages on  the  day  of  the  funeral.  Clergymen  came  from 
rural  parishes  to  pay  the  last  homage  to  their  great 
brother;  the  Nonconformist  ministers,  with  whom  he  had 
always  maintained  such  pleasant  relations,  nocked  to  the 
grave  of  the  gifted  and  gracious  Churchman ;  societies  and 
charitable  bodies  in  which  he  had  taken  interest  sent  de- 
putations. Most  of  those  who  saw  him  die  were  there. 
In  the  midst  of  this  vast  concourse,  beneath  the  majestic 


402 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  M  AIT  LAND. 


arches  of  the  lofty  cathedral,  amid  the  dirge-like  thunderu 
of  the  organ  and  the  mournful  chanting  of  the  full  choir, 
there  was  a  pathetic  simplicity  in  the  plain  coffin,  followed 
by  its  half-dozen  mourners,  foremost  among  whom  showed 
the  silvered  head  and  bowed  form  of  the  friend  so  deeply 
wronged  by  the  dead.  Cyril's  weeping  daughter  was  on 
Everard's  arm,  and  Lilian  led  his  blind  son  by  the  hand; 
Ingram  Swaynestone  and  George  and  Keppel  Everard 
closed  the  list  ®f  kinsfolk.  But  the  uninvited  mourners 
were  innumerable,  and  the  tears  they  shed  were  many, 
and  not  the  least  imposing  part  of  the  grand  and  solemn 
Burial  Service  was  the  immense  volume  of  human  voices, 
which  rose  like  the  sound  of  many  waters  upon  the  mourn- 
ful strains  of  the  funeral  hymn. 

At  the  close  of  the  ceremony,  Henry's  attention  was 
attracted  to  a  young  man  who  had  pressed  gradually 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  grave  into  which  he  cast  a 
wreath,  and  who  manifested  great  emotion,  which  he 
nevertheless  tried  hard  to  restrain.  There  was  something 
in  the  handsome  face  of  this  fine  young  fellow  which  sent 
a  quiver  through  Henry's  heart,  and  startled  Lilian  pain- 
fully— a  something  which  moved  Henry  to  accost  the 
young  man  in  the  slight  confusion  which  ensued  while  the 
little  procession  was  re-forming. 

"You  appear  to  be  moved,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice; 
"may  I  ask  if  you  were  an  intimate  friend  of  the  late 
dean's?" 

The  youth  was  about  to  make  some  reply,  when  hi» 
gaze  was  arrested  by  the  sorrowful  glance  of  Marion,  who 
was  upon  her  uncle's  arm.  He  stopped,  as  if  in  deference 
to  her,  and,  instead  of  replying,  took  a  card  from  his 
pocket  and  gave  it  to  Everard,  who  read  upon  it, 
"Benjamin  Lee." 

"That  will  explain  to  Doctor  Everard,"  he  said, 
observing  the  change  upon  Everard's  face. 

Everard  bid  him  call  at  the  Deanery  at  a  certain  hour, 
and  they  had  a  long  interview  in  the  very  room  which 
had  witnessed  Cyril's  anguish  upon  seeing  his  son. 

"I  would  give  half  my  life  not  to  have  spoken  to  him 
as  I  did,"  sobbed  the  young  fellow.  "I  don't  \vant  to  be 
a  gentleman  now,  Doctor  Everard:  that  is  all  knocked  out 
of  me.  I  see  what  ambition  did  for  my  poor  father.  I 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  403 

heard  his  last  words ;  I  saw  him  die.  I  only  want  to  do 
some  good  in  the  world  now.  I  am  all  alone.  I  buried 
my  poor  mother  yesterday.  She  died  at  peace.  She  bid 
me,  if  ever  it  lay  in  my  power,  to  serve  you  and  yours, 
remember  how  much  she  injured  you,  and  try  to  atone 
for  it.  It  cost  her  something  to  tell  me  what  she  had 
done  to  you.  But  she  thought  I  would  make  one  more 
witness. 

"You  shall  atone,"  Everard  replied.  "Look  upon  me 
as  a  friend.  I,  in  my  turn,  will  try  to  do  for  you  what 
he  would  have  done  had  he  lived.  Who  knows,"  he 
added,  musingly,  "how  far  we  may  be  permitted  to  make 
up  for  each  other's  shortcomings.  If  the  one  great  vica- 
rious sacrifice  is  so  potent,  others  ought  surely  to  flow 
from  it  and  share  its  potency." 

He  sent  for  Lilian,  and  from  that  moment  Benjamin 
Lee  was  no  longer  alone  in  the  world.  She  consulted 
with  Henry  upon  the  young  man's  capacities  and  acquire- 
ments, and  finally  a  situation  was  found  for  him  in  an 
office  in  Belminster,  Lee  having  a  great  desire  to  live  in 
the  city  which  had  such  solemn  associations  for  him. 
He  also  became  subsequently,  to  his  great  joy,  one  of  the 
choir,  and  his  beautiful  voice  was  daily  lifted  in  praise 
and  prayer  beneath  the  solemn  arches  which  had  thrilled 
to  his  father's  penitential  anguish.  Marion  and  Everard 
Maitland  in  time  became  deeply  attached  to  him,  little 
dreaming  of  the  tie  that  existed  between  them;  they 
thought  of  him  only  as  a  friend  and  protege  of  their 
Uncle  Henry. 

The  depositions  of  the  Dean,  and  those  taken  by  the 
clergyman  at  Alma's  request,  having  been  forwarded  to 
the  proper  quarters,  and  corroborated  by  young  Lee's  evi- 
dence and  that  of  Everard  himself,  who  was  able,  on  his 
examination,  to  give  a  satisfactory  account  of  the  manner 
in  which  he  spent  the  afternoon  of  Lee's  death,  it  became 
evident  to  the  authorities  that  a  terrible  miscarriage  of 
justice  had  occurred.  How  to  repair  this  miscarriage  was 
a  difficult  question,  and  one  which  exercised  the  mind  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  before  which  it  was  laid,  in  no 
»«~aall  degree.  The  ticket-of-leav«  was  annulled,  said 
fcVerard  was  declared  to  be  a  free  man.  The  property  he 


4C4  1S&  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 

forfeited  on  his  conviction  was  restored  to  him  with  its 
interest.  There  was  some  question  of  offering  him  em- 
ployment under  government,  which  was,  however,  not 
carried  out. 

As  soon  as  Everard  was  formally  set  free  from  the 
bondage  of  his  ticket-of-leave,  Lilian  and  he  were  quietly 
married. 

The  drama  is  played  out.  The  November  afternoon 
closes  in  upon  the  same  wide  and  varied  landscape  that 
Alma  Lee  saw  so  many  years  ago  with  innocent  eyes  and 
unawakened  heart,  all  unconscious  of  the  destiny  whose 
black  shadow  was  even  then  darkening  her  path;  little 
dreaming  of  the  temptation  about  to  assail  her,  and  the 
tragedy  in  which  one  sin  was  to  involve  so  many  lives. 

The  ancient  gray  tower,  dreaming  in  the  soft  afternoon 
haze,  gives  a  mellow  voice  to  the  passage  of  time  with  its 
solemn,  sweet  chimes;  the  slender  grace  of  the  Victorian 
daughter-tower  emulates  its  hoary  majesty,  as  it  rises 
above  the  smoke  canopy  of  the  little  town  on  the  river; 
the  tiny  bays  are  visible  on  the  wood-clad  horizon;  the 
flocks  spread  on  stubble  and  down;  the  cornel  is  purple 
in  the  ivied  hedgerow;  the  solemn,  half-conscious  silence 
of  the  chill  gray  afternoon  seems  laden  with  an  unspoken 
mystery  it  would  fain  reveal. 

" the  silence  grows 

To  that  degree,  you  half  believe 
It  must  get  rid  of  what  it  knows. 
Its  bosom  does  so  heave" 

The  fairy  music  swells  as  of  old  upon  the  listening  air; 
the  merry  bell-peals  blend  and  clash  in  a  sweet  disso- 
nance, changing  into  harmony,  like  the  transient  wrang- 
ling of  happy  lovers;  the  heavy  rumble  and  creak  of  the 
broad  wheels  and  stamp  of  the  iron  hoofs  make  a  rough 
bass  burden  to  the  silver  treble  of  the  bells;  and  the 
nodding  crests  of  the  gayly  caparisoned  wagon-horses  rise 
into  view  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  by  the  gate  over  which 
Alma  Lee  gazed  in  her  unawakened  youth,  and  thought, 
of  harmless  commonplace  things  in  which  nothing  tragic 
had  any  part. 

The  sturdy  steeds  stop,  as  on  that  far-off  day,  with  c 


THB  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  405 

gradual  dropping  of  the  blithe  bell-music;  the  great 
wagon  is  brought  to  with  a  rumble  and  clatter  and  cries 
of  "Whup"  and  "Whoa;7'  the  drag  is  cast  under  the 
massive  hind  wheel;  and  Will  Grove  rests,  as  of  old, 
against  the  strong  shaft,  and  gazes  over  the  gate  at  the 
still  dreamy  landscape,  and  recalls  the  day  when  Alma's 
beautiful  young  face  and  graceful  form  were  outlined 
against  such  a  chill,  gray  sky  as  this. 

Will  is  stouter  than  on  that  day,  and  his  limbs  move 
more  stiffly  and  heavily,  and  there  are  gray  hairs  in  his 
thick  beard.  He  wears  no  flower  now  in  his  felt  hat, 
which  has  lost  its  rakish  cock.  He  apostrophizes  a  sweet, 
flower-like  face,  which  peeps  roguishly  over  the  wagon 
ledge  at  him,  with  a  rough  but  kindly,  "Bide  still,  ye 
bad  maide;"  and  the  bad  maid  prattles  on  with  cries  of 
"Granfer,"  and  snatches  at  his  hat;  but  he  seems  not  to 
heed  her,  as  he  thinks  of  Alma  and  her  tragic  story, 
which  will  be  related  for  years  to  come  in  the  snug  bar  of 
the  Sun,  and  by  many  a  cottage  fireside  round. 

"She  were  a  bad  'un,  she  were!"  he  muses;  and  some 
vague  notions  of  witchcraft  and  half-formed  shadowy 
ideas  of  love-philters  steal  down  through  many  genera- 
tions to  his  uncultured  brain,  to  account  for  Cyril  Mait- 
land's  strange  infatuation. 

And  Alma  hides  her  broken  heart  in  her  lonely  far-off 
grave,  just  when  she  should  be  living  in  an  honored 
prime;  and  Cyril's  crushed  spirit  has  rest  in  his  grave, 
within  sound  of  the  same  cathedral  chimes.  And  how 
many  gracious  gifts  and  joyous  possibilities  and  noble 
opportunities  are  buried  with  these  two  tardily  penitent 
sinners!  Some  vague  feeling  of  the  pity  of  it  all  stirs  Will 
Grove's  heavily  moving  emotions,  as  he  cracks  his  whip 
and  strides  onward,  waking  the  fairy  music  of  the  bells  in 
its  blithe  and  changing  cadences. 

There  are  the  Swaynestone  woods;  but  the  house  pre- 
sents a  blank  face,  with  its  shuttered  windows  and  closed 
doors,  and  no  smoke  rises  from  the  chimneys,  and  no 
sound  is  heard  about  its  courts.  The  Swaynestones  are 
gone  abroad  for  a  year  or  two,  to  live  down  the  memory 
of  the  dean's  disgrace.  And  here  is  Malbourne;  but  the 
old  faces  are  seen  no  more  in  the  Rectory.  A  stranger 
preaches  from  the  village  pulpit,  and  strangers  walk  in 


406  WE  81LEXCE  OF  DEAX  MA1TLAND. 

the  pleasant  garden,  and  know  nothing  of  the  sweet  and 
tender,  if  sad  associations  which  hallow  every  tree  and 
flower.  Will  Grove  and  his  team  go  on  their  musical 
way,  till  the  clashing  cadences  fade  and  die  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  the  last  gleam  of  brass-mounted  trappings  is 
swallowed  in  the  evening  shadows. 

Let  us  flit  on  the  airy  wing  of  Fancy  southward,  over 
the  dim  downs  and  the  gray  murmuring  sea;  over  the 
orchards  and  farms  of  Normandy;  across  the  broad 
poplar-lined  plains  of  France,  breathing  warmer,  clearer 
air  with  every  breath;  over  the  airy  summits  of  the 
Vosges;  over  sunny  Cote  d'Or,  where  the  vineyards  have 
just  yielded  up  their  latest  spoil,  and  lie  brown  and  bare 
in  their  winter  sleep;  over  the  green  and  pine-clad  slopes 
of  the  Jura,  warm  now  in  the  sun's  western  glow ;  over 
blue  lake  and  icy  Alp,  till  we  rest  on  the  northern  shore 
of  sweet  Lake  Leman,  and  see  the  solid  stone  toweis  of 
Chillon  reflected  in  the  clear,  jewel-like  waters. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Not  far  from  Lake  Leman's  shore  at  Montreux,  a 
pretty  chalet,  girdled  round  with  the  two-storied  veranda 
so  usual  to  Swiss  houses,  stands  on  a  terrace  among  fruit- 
trees;  and  upon  that  terrace,  in  the  warm,  still  air  of  the 
clear  November  sunset,  stood  Lilian,  and  gazed  across 
the  calm  blue  lake  at  the  Savoyard  Alps,  which  were 
already  streaked  and  veined  with  snow,  and  admired  the 
roseate  glow  which  lighted  the  seven-peaked  summit  of 
the  Dent  du  Midi  as  with  celestial  fire,  thinking  over  the 
same  tragic  tale  which  was  passing  through  the  memory 
of  the  Malbourne  wagoner  to  the  accompaniment  of  his 
blithe  bell-music. 

The  ethereal  Alpine  glow  suggested  beautiful  far-off 
thoughts  to  Lilian — thoughts  of  paradise  and  the  rest  of 
the  departed,  of  the  pardon  and  sweet  peace  of  the  peni- 
tent. Cyril  seemed  near,  very  near,  to  his  twin-sister  at 
such  quiet  moments,  nearer  than  he  had  ever  been  since 


SHE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND  _oy 

the  sin  which  put  apart  their  lives,  so  mysteriously 
entwined  by  nature.  The  tragic  scene  in  the  cathedral 
had  restored  him  to  her  as  in  his  stainless  youth;  not 
that  she  regarded  the  anguish  which  killed  him  as  any 
expiation  or  felt  his  death  to  be  anything  but  a  mercy; 
he  was  restored  because  his  falseness  was  gone  and  he 
was  penitent;  and  she  felt  that  their  spirits  now  neld 
mystic  communion  sweeter  and  purer  than  that  of  their 
guileless  childhood,  and  rejoiced. 

She  was  leaning  upon  a  wheeled  chair,  as  she  gazed 
upon  the  exquisite  scene  before  her,  and  breathed  the 
soft  breath  of  the  parting  day.  In  the  chair  sat  her 
white-haired  father,  with  a  happy  smile  on  his  beautiful 
placid  face. 

"You  must  go  in  now,  dear,"  she  said,  in  the  soothing 
tones  we  use  toward  little  children;  "the  sun  is  gone." 
And  she  pushed  the  chair  along  the  terrace  to  an  open 
French  window,  and  led  the  old  man,  who  was  very  feeble, 
under  the  veranda  into  a  bright  salon,  where  a  wood  fire 
had  just  been  kindled  on  the  hearth;  and,  placing  him 
comfortably  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  leaping  blaze,  left  him 
with  a  tender  caress  to  dream  and  doze  in  the  gathering 
twilight. 

She  paused  in  the  garden  to  pluck  a  sweet  late  rose  and 
fasten  it  in  the  black  dress  she  wore  for  Cyril,  and  then 
passed,  with  a  light,  swift  step,  through  the  gateway  into 
the  dusty  high-road,  and  set  her  face  toward  the  Jura, 
which  lay  dark  against  the  incandescent  sky  of  sunset. 

She  had  not  gone  very  far  along  the  pleasant  road  to- 
ward the  warm  glory  of  the  departing  day,  when  her 
sweet,  serene  face,  clearly  illumined  as  it  was  by  the  after- 
glow, suddenly  took  a  new  radiance,  and  was,  as  it  were, 
transfigured  by  such  a  look  as  no  words  can  express;  such 
a  look  as  one  or  two  of  the  greatest  masters  have  suc- 
ceeded in  painting  in  a  Madonna  face;  such  a  look  as 
only  Christian  art,  and  that  at  its  very  best,  can  portray. 
The  source  of  this  beautiful  expression  was  the  dark  figure 
of  a  man  standing  in  a  wearied  attitude,  gazing  over  the 
lake,  in  strong  relief  against  the  western  brightness.  He 
lurned  at  the  sound  of  Lilian's  light  step,  and  met  her  face 
»vfth  a  corresponding  radiance  in  his  brown  eyes,  and 


408          THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  M JUTLAND. 

came  toward  her  with  a  momentary   elasticity   in  his 
wearied  limbs. 

"I  was  afraid  I  had  missed  you,"  he  said,  suffering  her 
to  take  some  of  the  numerous  parcels  with  which  he  was 
laden,  and  thus  free  one  of  his  arms,  in  which  she  linked 
her  hand  with  a  loving  pressure.  "It  took  so  long  to  do 
all  the  commissions.  Vevey  was  full;  the  whole  canton 
was  shopping  there.  The  children?  Oh,  they  are  row- 
ing home.  Obermann  took  a  boatman,  and  the  lake  is 
like  glass." 

"And  you  are  tired  with  the  walk,  Henry." 

"I  was  till  I  saw  you.  I  cannot  get  over  this  weakness 
yet,  Lilian.  Of  course,  it  must  take  time.  But  I  am 
quite  resigned  to  the  fact  that  I  can  never  be  strong 
again." 

"But  you  are  stronger.  Herr  Obermann  said  this 
morning  that  you  looked  ten  years  younger,"  said  Lilian, 
with  a  wistful  appeal  in  her  voice. 

"Infinitely  stronger,  dearest;  and  there  is  every  pros- 
pect of  my  living  to  a  good  old  age  yet,  and  a  happy  one. 
Shall  I  tell  you  what  1  was  thinking  when  I  heard  your 
step?  I  was  thinking,  'Suppose  she  had  done  as  I 
wished,  as  every  reasonable  creature  wished ;  suppose  she 
had  ceased  to  think  of  me,  save  as  we  think  of  the  dead, 
and  given  her  heart  and  youth  to  one  who  could  have 
made  her  happy — ' " 

"But  you  know  that  was  impossible,  Henry,  when  I 
had  given  my  heart  and  life  to  you." 

"Ah,  Lilian,  it  is  not  every  honest  and  loyal  love  that 
can  survive  such  a  discipline,  and  waste  its  youth  and 
hope  as  you  did  yours  on  me!  But  suppose  it  had  been 
so,  and  I  had  not  succumbed  to  despair  and  died  in 
prison,  though  I  do  not  think  I  could  have  lived  through 
those  awful  years  without  you." 

"And  yet  you  talk  of  my  wasted  youth." 

"And  it  was  wasted  for  you,  darling.  But  suppose 
it  had  been  so,  and  I  had  regained  my  freedom,  and  found 
you,  as  you  must  ever  have  been,  a  kind,  true  friend, 
but  the  happy  wife  of  another — of  Swaynestone,  for  in- 
stance, as  he  told  me  you  should  have  been — with  your 
heart  occupied  by  a  mother's  love  and  cares; — ah!  m} 
dear,  how  could  I  have  faced  life  alone?"  Henry  paused, 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  409 

for  his  heart  was  so  full  that  he  could  not  speak,  and  the 
tears  were  in  his  eyes,  and  also  in  Lilian's,  which  were 
raised  to  his,  speaking  the  language  which  no  words  can 
render.  "What  you  have  been  to  me!  what  you  have 
done  for  me  through  all  those  years  of  beautiful  sacrifice!" 
he  added,  when  his  voice  came  back. 

"Dearest,  I  have  only  loved  you,"  replied  Lilian. 

"You  have  only  loved  me,"  echoed  Henry,  pressing 
her  hand  more  closely  to  his  heart;  "that  is  all.  Some- 
times I  think  I  should  not  have  been  happier  if  we  had 
been  united  in  our  youth,  and  lived  all  those  years  oi 
fuller  life  together.  Darling,  there  are  compensations:  it 
was  worth  going  to  prison  all  those  years  to  find  you  at 
the  end."  And  he  thought,  but  did  not  say,  that  Cyril's 
treachery  was  atoned  by  his  twin  sisters  loyalty. 

Lilian  always  felt  that  she  must  make  up  to  Henry  all 
the  sorrow  caused  by  Cyril;  while  Henry,  remembering 
what  Cyril's  sin  had  cost  her,  felt  that  he  could  never  do 
enough  to  make  up  for  it. 

"Of  one  thing  I  am  quite  sure,"  he  added,  as  they 
reached  the  gate,  and  the  evening  sky,  with  its  one 
white  star,  looked  down  upon  their  happy  faces,  "the 
young  couple  in  the  pension  over  the  way  have  not  half 
so  sweet  a  honeymoon  as  ours." 

Just  then  light  footsteps  came  bounding  up  from  the 
lake-side  toward  them,  and  Marion  and  the  blind  boy, 
Everard,  their  young  faces  flushed  with  pleasure  and 
exercise,  came  running  to  them,  followed  by  Herr  Ober- 
mann,  who  now  acted  as  the  tutor  to  both  boy  and  girl. 

"I  rowed  the  whole  way,  and  Marry  steered;  and  look! 
what  a  sack  of  pine-cones  I  have  for  grandfather!"  cried 
Everard,  gayly,  as  Lilian  received  him  with  a  caress,  for 
they  encouraged  his  caressing  ways  in  consideration  of 
the  blindness  which  debarred  him  from  the  pleasure  of 
realizing  his  friends'  presence  except  by  touch.  Then 
they  all  entered  the  salon  together,  and  grouped  about 
the  blazing  hearth  for  the  idle  evening  hour  they  so  de- 
lighted in,  while  Herr  Obermann  left  them  to  enjoy  his 
pipe  and  his  volume  of  Kant  in  his  own  especial  den. 

Little  Everard  sat  by  his  grandfather,  and  handed  him 
pine-cones,  which  the  latter  threw  on  the  fire,  with  child- 
like pleasure  in  the  blaze  and  crackle  they  made,  and  in 


410 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


which  the  blind  child  also  took  a  strange  delight,  saying 
that  he  could  feel  the  brightness.  These  two  were  firm 
friends,  never  so  happy  as  when  one  could  help  the  other. 
Everard  delighted  to  wheel  his  grandfather's  chair,  or 
lend  him  his  arm;  while  Mr.  Maitland  would  read  aloud 
for  the  boy's  benefit,  indifferent  to  the  book  he  read,  since 
his  memory  had  left  him  on  the  day  of  Cyril's  death,  and 
he  could  thus  repeat  the  same  book  over  and  over  again, 
with  a  fresh  sense  of  pleasure  each  time,  a  power  that  was 
useful  to  the  boy  in  enabling  him  to  get  passages,  espe- 
cially passages  of  poetry,  by  heart. 

Mr.  Maitland  never  realized  Cyril's  death;  he  remained 
under  the  impression  that  they  were  always  on  a  journey 
to  Belminster  to  visit  the  dean,  and  was  perfectly  patient, 
his  lack  of  memory  destroying  all  sense  of  the  passage  of 
time.  Every  evening,  when  Lilian  visited  him  in  his 
bed  to  bid  him  good-night,  he  asked  if  they  were  going 
on  to  Belminster  to-morrow,  and  when  Lilian  replied, 
"Not  to-morrow,  dear  father;  perhaps  the  day  after," 
went  to  sleep  in  perfect  content,  until  one  night,  about 
three  years  after  the  dean's  death,  when,  instead  of  put- 
ting his  usual  question,  he  said,  very  quietly,  "I  shall  be 
with  him  before  morning,"  and  turned  to  his  rest  with  a 
happy  smile,  and  in  the  morning  they  found  him  in  the 
same  restful  attitude,  dead. 

There  was  nothing  distressing  in  the  merciful  infirmity 
which  had  spared  his  gray  head  such  bitter  sorrow.  He 
was  to  the  last  the  same  courtly,  polished  gentleman ;  the 
same  genial  companion,  delighting  in  all  that  was  beautf- 
ful  and  elevating,  and  content  to  look  on  at  the  life 
going  on  around  him. 

He  could  discourse  of  long-past  events,  and  of  art  and 
literature,  as  well  as  ever,  but  his  mind  never  received 
any  fresh  impressions  after  the  tremendous  blow  that 
crushed  it.  On  meeting  strangers,  he  was  sure  to  intro- 
duce the  following  phrase  into  the  conversation: — "You 
may  perhaps  know  my  son,  the  Dean  of  Belminster.  He 
has  just  been  presented  to  the  See  of  Warham."  This 
was  the  only  painful  circumstance  connected  with  his 
infirmity,  save  that  he  never  could  grasp  the  fact  that 
Henry  and  Lilian  were  married,  and  occasionally  em- 
barrassed them  considerably,  by  blandly  asking  them 
what  date  was  fixed  for  the  wedding,  and  always  alluded 


TEE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND.  4u 

to  Lilian  as  Miss  Maitland,  a  circumstance  that  led  stran- 
gers to  suppose  that  he  referred  to  his  granddaughter, 
Marion. 

The  children  were  carefully  guarded  from  all  knowl- 
edge of  their  father's  transgressions.  It  was,  of  course, 
easy  to  keep  the  newspapers  from  Everard;  and,  with  a 
little  care,  Marion  was  also  shielded  from  them.  The 
Times  of  the  Monday  following  the  dean's  death  pub- 
lished the  telegram  stating  that  he  had  died  suddenly  in 
the  cathedral  at  the  close  of  an  eloquent  sermon  the  day 
before,  and  also  gave  such  a  sketch  of  his  life  up  to  its 
close  as  is  its  usual  cust  :*^>  on  the  death  of  eminent  men, 
and  this  paper  Marion  reau,  ^eatly  wondering  that  no 
account  of  her  dear  papa's  funeral  ever  appeared.  Lilian 
took  them  away  from  Belminster  as  soon  as  Mr..  Maitland 
could  be  moved,  to  a  quiet  seaside  village,  where  they 
remained  until  her  marriage.  To  guard  them  more 
effectually  from  any  chance  knowledge  of  the  truth,  as 
well  as  to  restore  Henry's  shattered  health,  it  was  deckled 
that  the  little  family  should  live  abroad  for  some  years  at 
least 

His  physician  had  told  Henry  that  he  would  never  be 
fit  for  mental  labor  of  any  intensity  or  long  duration,  and 
he  accepted  the  prospect  of  a  life  of  busy  idleness,  which 
in  the  end  proved  very  happy,  however  different  from  that 
he  had  anticipated  in  his  youth.  He  was  thus  obliged 
forever  to  renounce  his  beloved  profession,  though  he 
never  lost  interest  in  it,  or  ceased  to  cultivate  the  mani- 
fold studies  connected  with  it.  In  his  quiet  leisure  he 
found  opportunity  to  set  before  the  public  much  valuable 
information  on  prison  life,  and  particularly  to  indicate 
its  hygienic  aspects,  mental  as  well  as  physical. 

In  the  serene  happiness  of  his  later  years,  it  was  sweet 
to  Henry  to  dwell  on  the  brighter  scenes  of  his  life  in  the 
prison  which  had  at  last  become  so  dear  to  him,  and 
contained  so  many  friends,  and  he  often  talked  of  it,  the 
more  so  as  little  Everard  manifested  an  intense  interest 
in  everything  connected  with  captivity.  He  had  all 
"The  Prisoner  of  Chillon"  by  heart,  and  loved  to  go 
into  the  vaulted  dungeon  in  the  castle,  and  touch  the 
"pillars  of  Gothic  mold/'  and  the  ring  to  which  Bonni- 
vard  was  chained  and  listen  to  the  lapping  of  the  water 


412 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND. 


on  its  massive  walls,  and  hear  people  speak  of  the  dim 
light  with  its  watery  reflections.  Both  children  knew 
from  their  first  meeting  with  their  uncle  of  his  unmer- 
ited punishment,  and  understood  that  his  innocence  had 
been  proved  beyond  all  doubt,  but  they  never  were  told 
who  was  the  real  criminal. 

Marion  remembered  the  incident  of  giving  the  hand- 
kerchief to  the  man  whose  shaven  head  roused  her  little 
brother's  innocent  suspicions  the  day  they  waited  in  the 
pony-chaise  outside  the  house  of  Leslie's  widow,  and  it 
was  her  great  delight,  as  well  i?  her  brother's,  to  get 
"dear  Uncle  Henry"  in  ti---  .uood  to  relate  the  moving 
incidents  of  his  escape  and  brief  spell  of  freedom,  and 
they  invariably  wept  with  great  enjoyment  at  the  tragic 
close  of  the  narrative,  when  the  fugitive  sank  into  the 
death-like  unconsciousness  of  exhaustion  and  starvation. 

Henry  and  Lilian  became  the  types  of  true  lovers  in  the 
eyes  of  the  numerous  young  people  growing  up  around 
them,  and  were  always  appealed  to  against  the  decisions 
of  flinty-hearted  parents  and  guardians  in  the  crises  of 
their  love  affairs;  they  also  became  a  second  father  and 
mother  to  the  many  Maitlands,  Swaynestones,  Everards, 
and  others  of  the  rising  generation,  all  of  whom  regarded 
a  visit  to  Uncle  Henry  and  Aunt  Lilian  as  the  height  of 
bliss.  So  that,  although  their  long-deferred  marriage 
was  childless,  it  was  blessed  with  the  love  of  many  young 
creatures,  besides  the  especial  children,  Marion  and 
Everard  and  Benjamin  Lee. 

The  little  family  was  already  knit  together  on  that 
November  evening  in  bonds  of  strong  and  deep  affection. 
They  made  a  pleasant  picture  in  the  warm  firelight,  the 
white-haired  man,  with  the  blind  boy  nestling  to  his  side, 
feeding  the  bright  hearth  with  resinous  fir-apples;  Henry 
and  Lilian  side  by  side  opposite  them;  and  Marion  sitting 
on  the  rug  in  the  full  blaze,  with  her  head  resting  against 
Lilian's  knee,  while  she  read  the  letters  in  the  firelight. 

"The  new  dean,"  she  quoted  from  her  girl-friend's  let- 
ter, "is  the  antipodes  of  your  dear  papa,  whom  we  shall 
never  cease  to  lament.  Mrs.  Little's  baby  could  not  be 
got  to  sleep  on  any  condition  whatever,  and  naughty 
Canon  Warne  asked  Mrs.  L why  she  did  not  try  one 


THE  SILENCE  OF  DUAX  MA.ITLAND.  413 

jyf  the  dean's  sermons.  He  is  dreadfully  learned  (the 
dean,  not  the  baby),  and  a  regular  frump;  his  wife  and 
daughters  (five)  are  all  frumps,  with  red  noses  and  hands 
and  big  feet.  We  called  at  the  dear  Deanery  on  Thurs- 
day, and  oh!  Marry,  I  thought  my  heart  would  break 
when  I  saw  all  the  dear  old  pretty  things;  and  when  tea 
was  brought  in  and  placed  on  the  very  same  table,  Ethel 
and  I  burst  out  crying.  Jim  says  it  was  the  worst  possi- 
ble form,  and  mother  was  ready  to  sink  through  the  car- 
pet with  shame.  The  dean  is  so  absent  that  he  stirs  his 
tea  with  the  sugar-tongs,  and  never  remembers  who  peo- 
ple are,  unless  it  is  desirable  to  forget.  Imagine  the 
contrast  to  our  dean.  Your  uncle  George  is  driving  the 
bishop  to  distraction  with  his  goings-on  at  St.  Chad's. 
They  say  the  poor  bishop  has  gone  down  on  his  knees  and 
asked  him  as  a  personal  favor  to  travel  for  a  year  or  so. 
The  new  tenor  has  the  most  glorious  voice.  Doctor 
Rydal  says  it  makes  him  ten  years  younger.  I  think 
your  uncle  Henry  knows  him — a  handsome  fellow  named 
Lee.  The  Times  says  that  Lady  Swaynestone  has  twins." 
("Dear  me,  uncle  Henry,"  interrupted  Marion,  "how 
twins  do  run  in  our  family!'')  "The  last  we  heard 
of  them,  Lionel  and  Lilian  were  as  naughty  as  they 
could  live,  so  it  is  a  good  thing.  So  Mr.  Leonard  Mait- 
land  is  to  be  married  in  the  spring.  Jim  knows  her  peo- 
ple well.  How  we  miss  Everard's  voice!  etc."  "And 
yet,"  said  Marion,  as  she  finished  her  letter.  "I  do  not 
wish  to  go  back  to  dear  Belminster.  It  would  be  too  sad." 
And  her  brother  echoed  her  words;  and  then,  alter 
their  evening  meal  of  Swiss  fare,  Everard's  violin  and  his 
tutor's  came  out,  and  there  were  music  and  the  singing  of 
sweet  old  glees,  while  Mr.  Maitland  sat  listening  happily 
by  the  fire,  and  Henry  heard  from  behind  his  paper  or 
joined  in,  when  required,  until  the  hour  came  for  the 
blind  boy  to  stand  before  his  grandfather  and  repeat  the 
evening  psalms,  which  he  knew  by  heart  from  his  choris- 
ter experience ;  and  the  young  folk  and  their  grandfather 
went  to  their  rest  and  Herr  Obermann  to  his  pipe,  and 
Henry  and  Lilian  were  left  by  the  bright  hearth  together. 
That  was  the  brightest  tiuae  in  all  the  bappy  day. 


A     000118172    6 


